Bridget Jones: A Brand New Start
by S. Faith
Summary: Adventures abroad and at home, now that Bridget and Mark are back together. This begins just post-EOR/ book, after Mark asks her (on Friday, 19 Dec 1997) to go to Thailand with him.
1. Chapter 1

**Bridget Jones: A Brand New Start**

By S. Faith, © 2014-2015

Words: 50,000 in 6 chapters  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary<span>: Adventures abroad and at home, now that Bridget and Mark are back together.  
><span>Disclaimer<span>: Really isn't mine.  
><span>Notes<span>: I won't lie: wrote this primarily for the wedding, since it's unlikely we'll ever see what Ms. Fielding wrote. Also incorporating some things we learn about what happened to characters in the interim, from mentions in _MATB_.  
>This begins just post-<em>EOR<em>, after Mark asks her (on Friday, 19 Dec 1997) to go to Thailand with him.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

**Sat, 10 Jan 1998**

_9st (though actually feel weightless), cigarettes 0 (as not allowed), nicotine patches 1 (lifesaver), alcohol units 4 (vg top cocktails), boyfriends 1 (hurrah!), life-altering moves 1 (terrifying, but good)._

**11.30 am, UK time.** Have been far too busy with Christmas, New Years, etc. to update diary (actually, have not had a moment to breathe until now), though might have instead been updating diary from the stocks, prison or similar, as Mark Darcy revealed himself to be a bit of a prankster at the worst possible time. Just before Christmas, Mark had just asked me how I felt about going to Thailand instead of LA. Felt head began to swirl. Return to place where had narrowly escaped ten years for drug mule frame-up? Thought too of near-solid humid air and hole in floor for toilet when heard Mark prompt for an answer: "So what do you think?"

"I… this is so sudden," I managed, still reeling. I mean, had just told self that wanted to be with him wherever he was, but if 'where he was' was where nearly spent last remaining child-bearing years, _incarcerated_…. Was too much to ask of me, surely?

"Darling, are you still there?"

"Yes, sorry," I said. Took deep breath. "Yes. Of _course_ I'll come to Thailand with you."

"Really?"

(Honestly, he didn't have to sound so incredulous.)

"Yes, really."

Then, through telephonic connection, heard him begin to chuckle.

Wounded, I asked, "Why is that funny?"

"I thought for sure you'd tell me to sod off, or chuck me, or know I was joking…" His voice went instantly sober. "Darling, I'd _never_ ask such a thing of you," he said tenderly. "Though I'm exceedingly touched that you said yes, and so quickly at that."

Was v. confused. "So we're not going to Thailand?"

"We are not."

"Are we going _anywhere_?"

At this Mark laughed a short, sharp, highly amused laugh. "Yes," he said. "Lunch, a little Christmas shopping… a stop by the US Consulate?"

Was v. glad had taken day off from working. On top of Christmas and New Years, had to also spend time arranging things for trip.

Ooh, time for lunch. Or is it dinner? And another cocktail, while Mark has gone to loo. Still v. long flight ahead, so cocktails are essential.

**1.00 pm, UK time.** So as mentioned, now on way to Los Angeles on v. long flight, though is first class and v. posh.

Since new consultant work is freelance and can be done in pyjamas from sofa, can just as easily done from LA with Mark (preferably in bathing suit, while next to pool).

"Though you do realise," Mark was sure to point out, "with an eight hour time difference, you may have some very early mornings."

Humpf. Love Mark Darcy, but can be rather a wet blanket at times.

However, Mark Darcy, being Mark Darcy (as he is), made sure we applied for visitor visa for self for future, and had interview just a few days after Christmas (top human rights lawyers apparently have v. g. diplomatic connections).

Don't quite understand whole visa situation, to be honest, but seems clear will have to travel back to London at some point to get visa. Not sure why they cannot mail it to Los Angeles address, though they probably don't expect that one would already be in the US when receiving visa to visit US.

**1.45 pm, UK time.** Was sure that flight was nearly over, but find we are not even half way there. Should take nap or read, but am too restless. But at same time, am bored. Mark has gone to sleep. Seems he can sleep anywhere, any time. Bastard.

Ooh, I know. Will have another cocktail. Maybe will make me sleepy.

Maybe two.

**1.30 pm (now on Los Angeles time).** Oof. Last cocktail hit me like load of bricks; got all bleary and fell sleep and only awakened by rough shaking by Mark. He looked a little cross.

"We're landing soon," he said.

"What's wrong?" I asked. V. bad start to life in paradise.

"Nothing," he said, then looked down pointedly. "Well, except that you seem to have spilt some of your cocktail on your blouse."

Looked down, saw splodge on silk top that had now dried. Drink cup still sat on table thing; bloody air hostesses are not efficient when most need it. "Sorry. I couldn't fall asleep on my own."

He offered a little smirk. "You forgot about your pill, didn't you."

Had in fact forgotten about herbal remedy thing we had picked out at Boots. Drink was nicer tasting, anyway. "Did it work?"

Mark tipped his head. "As you saw."

Figured would just save it for sleeping that night, though with the majority of a day still ahead of us, suspect will not need it.

Ooh! Bonging sound means we are about to land.

**9.30 pm.** Completely shattered with exhaustion. About to fall into bed.

After passing through Customs—relatively smooth process—we emerged heading for baggage claim and found that someone had been sent to meet us. Should not have been surprised. Mark is stickler for detail.

Walked out of airport and into freakishly bright dazzling January sun. Realised instantly had no idea where had put sunglasses. Or if had actually packed them. Dug deeper into handbag.

Drive was marvellous. Everything gorgeous and shining, cloudless cerulean sky, expanse of deep blue ocean in distance. Palm tree-lined roads seem surreal. Feels like mirage, dream, or similar.

After wonder-filled drive, the polite and non-intrusive driver deposited us in front of property I was sure could not be correct, as seemed something out of a Hollywood picture (though not too far out as are v. near to Hollywood). But no, somehow the key Mark had worked and we opened the door to be met by a whoosh of cool air.

Left speechless. House in which we are staying is not to be believed. Luxurious suite of rooms, windows practically from floor to ceiling, and—as hoped and dreamed—a swimming pool. However, felt sure was too good to be true. Had to ask Mark who we were sharing house with. He dropped bags in entry way, gave me a look, then a smile, then he let out a laugh.

"Share? No, darling, this is for us."

"All of this?" Dared not think what a place like this might cost per month. For five months, no less.

He came towards me, took me into his arms. "All of this, just for you and me," he murmured, nuzzling into hair just by my hair. Was tired, was hungry, but instant feeling of love—well, _lust_—overtook me and was instantly awake, alert, ready for action, etc.

Scooped me up into his arms and took confident stride towards the staircase, then proceeded upwards. Like homing pigeon or similar he strode directly to master bedroom—door was conveniently open—and tossed self down onto bed.

Mmm. Things were just getting good when distinct sound of tune-of-town-hall-type doorbell started to go off from downstairs. Froze, which made Mark freeze too (and apparently recover ability to hear). He cursed under his breath as he pushed himself away to get to his feet.

"We could pretend not to be here?" I suggested lamely.

He offered a pained smile; the doorbell went off again. "They know I'm here. Where else would I go?"

So with great reluctance we composed ourselves and made our way back downstairs. At the door, Mark asked, "Yes, who is it?"

"Hello, Mr Darcy?" asked a deep, smooth, television-style-American-accented voice. "Ron Peters, here from the firm."

Mark looked to me with a 'I really have to let him in' look. I nodded. He swung open the door, to reveal a well-dressed man—dress shirt, tie, trousers—who was a bit shorter than Mark, with dark, coarse hair, light hazel eyes, and a grin best described as 'Californian'. Was something more about his expression that could not quite place—

"Hello, Mr Peters," Mark said, extending his hand for a shake, which Ron Peters took. "Mark Darcy."

"Please, call me Ron." He stood back then looked to me. "And this must be… your girlfriend?"

"Ah, er, yes." Mark seemed a little flustered; could see creeping stain of pink around his collar, which only now realise was quite uneven. "Ah, yes, allow me to introduce Bridget Jones. She works in television back in London."

Ron Peters reached to shake my hand, that grin never once leaving his face, and he placed his free hand over the back of mine as we shook. "Pleasure to meet you, miss."

_Miss?_ Love Ron Peters.

"And feel free to call me Mark," Mark seemed to add as an afterthought.

Ron Peters looked to the door, then back to Mark, that same expression on his face. It occurred to self that it was deep amusement. But at what? "I hope you've been making yourself at home?"

"Yes, quite," Mark said. "We only just arrived, actually."

"I'd hoped to be here when you arrived, to greet you, but traffic was worse than usual, and that's saying something," he went on. "Wanted to make sure you were all settled in, give you a tour of the place—didn't think you'd be up for much socialisation tonight after the travel. We'll all have dinner another night. Maybe tomorrow?"

"Certainly."

"Great." Ron Peters then gestured that we follow him.

Sitting room is, I swear, larger than whole flat, has giant fireplace with wrap-around sofa. Kitchen has scary modern appliances and seamless cabinetry, though not nearly as scary and seamless as Mark's brushed aluminium kitchen in Holland Park. "Fully stocked the shelves. I'm sure you must be pretty hungry."

"Oh, _yes_," I said, quite without thinking. Mark looked to the floor, cheeks tinting pink.

Saw additional rooms on ground floor—loo, entertainment room with huge television, etc.—then Ron headed for the staircase to the first floor.

"Ah," Mark said, stopping. "You don't have to—I mean, we've found the master suite already."

As I saw Ron Peters' eyes involuntarily glance towards the front door again, I realised he wasn't looking at the front door at all, but our pile of suitcases next to said door, which we had not brought upstairs. I knew then the source of his amusement: he bloody knew full well we had already found the bedroom from the moment he'd seen us, and because we hadn't put our luggage away…. Oh _God_. Should have checked hair and makeup in mirror.

"Right," said Ron Peters. "Well, I won't keep you from your dinner." He turned for the door, but just as quickly turned back. "Oh, before I forget." He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled it out, then extended what appeared to be a key to hand it to Mark. At our joint confusion—we already had keys to the house—he explained, "For the car."

Car? Where on earth was car?

As Mark accepted the key fob, Ron Peters explained (as if reading mind) while pointing to a door I assumed to be a storage cupboard, "It's in the garage—" pronounced _guh-RAHJ_—"and it's gassed up, ready to go. Garage door opener in the car. Of course, this is for your personal use while you're here. You can ride with me to and from the office. Driving in downtown LA can be challenging even for the natives, then on top of that we're all on the wrong side of the road." He winked. "Well, I'm off. I'll give you a buzz tomorrow. Have a good night."

The men shook hands again, and Mark saw him out.

"A house, a pool, a car in the 'guh-RAHJ'," I said, trying to lighten the embarrassment am sure Mark felt.

"Far more than I expected," he said.

Before things could get more awkward, said, "I'm sorry about…" But then trailed off as was _not_ actually sorry about falling into bed (even if our business had been, er, left unfinished) with gorgeous boyfriend the moment we stepped into rented LA villa, so said instead, "…the law partner guy perhaps thinking we're some kind of shag-mad bunnies."

At this he stared at me, but then smiled and chuckled a little, reaching for my wrist, taking it, then pulling me into his arms for a cuddle. Hands made broad circles on back, felt his breath hot near my ear, which did have its usual effect on me, but truth of it was that I was feeling weak from hunger.

"Let's… let's investigate the pantries, shall we?" Stomach made a v. rude noise, as if to second the motion; Mark chuckled again.

Lots of veg in the (enormous) refrigerator—green leafy lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, etc.—as well as fruit of all sorts, some meats (lots of turkey), cheeses, and loads of small Perrier bottles. Bagels, imported Italian pasta, jars of pasta sauce, rice, etc. in the pantries. Wine in fridge (white) and pantry (red). They have even provided an electric kettle, English tea, and other assorted tastes of home like cream crackers and Jaffa cakes, bless.

For quick and easy we opted for pasta with a jar of tomato sauce with meat, something that seemed v. posh and high quality. Found a wedge of parmesan and a grater, opened bottle of white wine. Within 20 minutes we had practically five-star meal. (That it had been v. long time since last meal on plane surely affected judgement.)

"You know," said Mark, reclining in kitchen chair, "we didn't have a look in the freezer. Maybe there's something worth having for dessert."

Like a shot, was out of seat and at the refrigerator again pulling open the freezer drawer. As if personally selected just for me, there sat a box of lush-looking chocolate éclairs.

"What did you find?"

Took it out, held it up as if had found Holy Grail. Mark had one too, and it was fantastic.

We cleared the table and rinsed off our dishes, but Mark decided to leave the washing up for the morning (keeping his word, lovely man), then came upstairs with our bags. Had lovely, long shower in enormous deluxe stall, but after we got out the telephone began to ring. Mark has been on the line this whole while. Can't imagine what is so urgent on Saturday night. Would really like to resume—

Oooh. Wish is about to come true.

**Sun, 11 Jan**

_9st 1 (blame on flight halfway round world), cigarettes 5 (saintly), alcohol units 3 (only polite), dips in pool 0 (though alternative much better)._

**4.30 am.** Oh God. Have just woken and cannot get back to sleep. Should be exhausted after long flight then happy and extended consummation in giant bed in giant master suite of rental house.

**4.34 am.** Still awake. Ugh. Is far too early to be up. Is not even light out yet.

**4.39 am.** Still awake! Wonder when sunrise is? Maybe will get up to watch.

**6.15 am.** Have woke, got up, found cafetière, made coffee and then had some along with an éclair for breakfast, and still not light out. Thought it got lighter earlier here. Maybe still too early.

GAH!

**7.45 am.** Was Mark Darcy come down in boxers and shirtless, looking a bit sleep-bedraggled and frankly v. sexy. "Why are you already awake?"

"Couldn't sleep," told him. "Made some coffee."

"So you did," he said, running his hand over his hair. Weirdly instinctively, he went straight to the correct cupboard for a mug for the coffee. Watched him take his first sip, was v. pleased to see him smile. He came over to where I sat at the breakfast nook, slipped his arm around my shoulders, then bent to kiss me. "Good morning, darling," he said tenderly. "Did you have something to eat already?"

"Er…" Was unsure about admitting to éclair breakfast, but decided he would just figure it out later anyway, so in spirit of love and honesty, told him so.

He gave a light laugh. "Of course you did," he said, running his free hand over my undoubtedly mad hair. To my surprise he then added, "Well, there were four in the box, weren't there? I might as well have that last one. Not much different, I suppose, than one of your chocolate croissants."

Had moment of panic. Do they have chocolate croissants in LA?

"Unless you want it?" Mark added.

"Yes… er, I mean, no, it's OK," I said, then told him about the chocolate croissant concern.

"I'm sure there are patisseries here in Los Angeles," he said. "We can do a little shopping soon."

Realised that kitchen was starting to brighten up a little. Sunrise at last! Pointed it out to Mark, who insisted we go out onto terrace to watch. Absolutely stunning; stood there, his arm around my shoulders, and sipped our coffees as the sun rose higher into the sky.

"Our first LA sunrise," I said with a happy little sigh, and he tightened the hand on my shoulder, bent to kiss the crown of my head. Loved being there with him. Was perfect, beautiful moment; slipped my hand around his waist and pulled him closer.

"Come on," he murmured. "Let's go back inside, take care of that éclair, and then…."

Mmm. Love Mark Darcy.

**11.03 am.** Was able to sleep again after lovely shag session. Turned to snuggle up to Mark again, who roused and kissed me. "Suppose we ought to explore what's to be our neighbourhood for the next few months," he said quietly. "Wonder if there's a map—"

Lovely moment was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone, which am beginning to hate with fiery passion. Mark reached for it. "Darcy here…. Yes, hello, Ron." Mark's eyes flicked to look at me. "Yes, of course. Dinner tonight." Long silence. "Of course. Wonderful. We'll see you then. Goodbye."

Had already forgotten about promised dinner with law partner. Partners? Oh God. Feel sudden Law-Council-Dinner-levels of pressure. Did not bring anything nearly so posh for California.

Felt Mark take my hand. "Don't have to look traumatised," he said gently. "You brought that lovely black dress, didn't you?" I nodded. "Not to worry. You'll be great."

Apparently Ron Peters offered to take us on short sightseeing driving tour of local area before the dinner itself, so we can be lazy sloths today, take advantage of swimming pool.

"You should probably unpack your laptop and see if there's anything waiting for you for tomorrow's agenda," Mark said, acting as v. wet blanket again. Would prefer to think of this as holiday, though know it is not really. Still, is weekend. Now feel as if must do homework before school on Monday morning.

"I'll check," I said, "but I'm not doing anything until the morning."

"Seems fair."

Had sudden realisation, though, that did not have info to connect to internet to get assignments, documents, etc. Told Mark, who said he'd ring Ron back and ask. Actually grateful to have given it a go today while Mark's here, or would have had v. frustrating Monday morning. More so than usual.

**12.30 pm.** Have got internet up now. V. fast compared to home connection. Have checked email, nothing awaits. Hurrah! Time now for lunch. Mark is making us sandwiches after loading dishwasher. Domestic bliss.

**5.15 pm.** After eating we investigated the back garden terrace and pool, though obvs. did not intend on swimming just yet as would result in stomach cramps as warned repeatedly as child by mother.

(Oh God. Have realised did not call mother to let her know we are here safe and sound. Think it is too late to call now—eight hours ahead. Surely Mark has already called his mum. Surely she'll tell mine?)

Anyway, slipped upstairs to change into swimsuit. Had been so ecstatic at thought of outdoor pool in sunny, warm winter that had previously given no thought to horror of body in bikini in January. Fish-belly white and flobbery. Terrifying. Mark Darcy will run in disgust for airport for flight back.

"What are you being so secretive about?" It was Mark, behind me as I fished through suitcase in search of bikini. "Why haven't you unpacked your things?"

When had he had time to unpack his? "Going to change to have a swim."

"I thought as much," he said. Did not have to turn to see smirk on face to know it was there. "You're acting like you're a double agent about to photograph secret documents for the Communists. You can change in front of me."

Bloody cheek from Mr Perfect Pants Five-a-Side. Did not want to change in front of him, but also did not want to give him satisfaction. Stood with quarry in hand and met his gaze. "I know."

"Go on, then," he said in authoritative tone. "Change."

"Don't you need to change, too?" I said in obvious attempt to distract.

"It can wait." He folded arms across chest. "Let's have it then."

No getting out of it now. When he puts out his own eyes with forks, he will have only himself to blame. Met his gaze then pulled sundress (which had slipped on after morning shag) up and over head. Realised as our gazes re-engaged that he had weird look in eye. Realised weird look in eye was lust.

Was utterly bewildered at reaction to self's unfit winter body; low lighting or body covered over with sheets is normal shag circumstance, so must have been surprise or shock, and not lust, after all. Carried on with changing into bikini, and noticed expression had not altered. He apparently made no move to switch into his trunks.

The final touch was when I tied the string of the bikini top. Waited for him to say something. He cleared his throat, wetted his lips, and in that moment realised first instinct was right; saw unmistakeable evidence in front of trousers. Felt playful urge take over self. "Meet you downstairs, then?" I asked in demure voice, coyly batting lashes a little.

As I went to pass by, hand shot out to reach across my front and grasp the opposite hip.

"What, do you need help?" I asked, feigning innocence.

"I did insist you change in front of me, didn't I," he said in quiet voice. "My own fault." Then he turned his head as he pulled me close to him. Hand slipped down back of bikini bottom and…

Necessitated re-dressing in bikini after particularly vigorous romp (seems any jet lag has been adequately conquered) before Mark slipped into his trunks, and with towels in hand, we at last ventured to the back garden, and to the pool.

To our surprise and delight, was more than just a pool. One end had sectioned-off area. Have seen enough television to know it was a hot tub. Squealed happily and made my way to the hot tub, which made Mark chuckle. As I went to step in I looked over to him. So nice to see him relaxed and happy, even if I know he has a tough case to begin tomorrow.

Water was pleasantly hot. Did not think hot tub experience could get more delightful, but Mark discovered what looked like a control panel with a timer. Turn of dial caused jets of bubbles to activate. Sort of wish had known of this after eleven hour plane ride, though no complaint about last night's shower and shag. When time was up we reluctantly pulled selves from the hot water. Limbs felt made of rubber.

After that am desperate for nap, but Mark reminds me that Ron Peters will be here for us at 7, so had quick shower and hair wash. Now must dress, do hair and makeup. Fortunate that dress has been in Mark's garment bag and is unwrinkled, and also that Mark bought converters for power plugs. Would have mad creased dress and sopping wet hair, otherwise.

**Midnight.** Of course it took him no time at all to shave and dress, so while I finished up he went back downstairs. Found him in the kitchen making us a fruit salad of apple, banana and red grapes. Was confused.

"To tide us over until—" Then he stopped talking when he looked up and saw me.

"Do I look all right?"

"Bridget, you look more than all right," he said. Expression was extremely appreciative. "Stunning. Gorgeous."

Looked down. Felt face go warm. Don't know why taking praise from Mark is so difficult. "Thanks."

Felt his hand slip around my waist. "Mm," he said. "You smell nice, too." He kissed my cheek lightly, but then slipped away from me, as if knowing full well that staying close to me might make us miss our pickup in twenty minutes. "Here. I made this for us, since dinner reservations aren't apparently until 9.15."

Do not understand concept of dinner so late in the evening, but Mark told me that was v. common in Los Angeles. Assured me we could have our dinner whenever we wanted. "And tea, too, if you like," he said with a grin.

At about ten past seven the hideous doorbell went off again. Grabbed my clutch and slipped shawl around shoulders—was already full dark outside—as Mark went to the foyer to answer the door.

"Hello, Mark," said our tour guide; tone of voice suggested dual meaning as he added, "See you've had a nice day." After shawl was in place, stepped forward and the sound of my heels clacking on the floor drew his attention. When he saw me, he offered a broad smile. "As do you, Miss Jones," he said smoothly. "Shall we?"

We went to his car. Was unsure of protocol of where I should sit. Ron swept forward and opened door. Had moment of horror thinking he wanted me to drive, but realised/remembered that driver sits on opposite side than in UK. Not actually sure I can drive whilst here.

Ron pointed out for our information that the area of LA we're in is called Brentwood. All evidence—huge houses, imposing gates, v. expensive cars—suggests it is v. posh area of town. "Actually, my house is just a few blocks away from you," he said. He pointed out the Getty Museum and the freeway, asking if we had anything quite like it England. Do not think so. Freeway is roadway of monstrous proportion—driver yesterday had taken us on more scenic route closer to ocean, and am glad for it. We then wound up on Santa Monica Boulevard, with all of its glittering lights, and felt instantly as if thrust into the pictures.

"Ooh! Where's Rodeo Drive?" I asked in reverent tone.

Ron chuckled. "It's actually just ahead. Planning a little shopping?" Before I could answer, he added, "You should feel free to do a little sightseeing if you like during the day. You can drive the car. You're on the insurance policy."

Snuck a look back at Mark. Could tell in the neon glow of our surroundings that his face had gone ashen.

We made another turn before Ron sidled up to a kerb, and we all exited. Mark got the door for me, the darling, after the shock he'd had. A parking attendant swept up and whooshed the car away to valet parking. Ron then led us to an obscure-looking door. Began to wonder if it was in fact restaurant and not, say, opium den (do opium dens still exist? Must make note to research, in case is actual threat) but he opened the door and inside was shown to be v. noir glamorous.

"Ortiz," Ron said to the maître d', "party of six."

Worst fears come true. Not just me, Mark, and Ron, but three other scary law partners too. Maybe was not supposed to come at all?

The maître d' looked at reservation book. "Ah yes. Here we are," he said, then made a little scribble and looked up again with tight little smile. "You're the first to arrive."

Led us to round table in corner, took orders for cocktails (tried not to sound too desperate in accepting and ordering a Bloody Mary). Promised self would not get too pissed so as not to cause embarrassment in front of Mark's work colleagues.

"Interesting cocktail choice," said Ron to me with a smile. "Very traditional." He had ordered something I hadn't heard of. Suspect restaurant had made it up. Did not wish to be too experimental and get something wasn't sure would like.

Mark had ordered a gin and tonic. Perhaps slightly less traditional than mine? Do not understand why Bloody Mary worthy of comment.

Ended up with weird goat cheese and tomato starters, which Ron picked, I think. Were each partaking when the next person arrived. Was tall, dark, Antonio Banderas-type man with perfect coiffed hair and genuine smile, walking directly towards our table. Ron rose to greet him. Mark did too. Not sure if Americans expected me to stand so sat there in tense, ready-to-stand-up pose.

Antonio was actually called Eduardo Gonzales. As Ron did introductions, Eduardo reached to offer Mark a handshake. "Mr Darcy, such an honour to meet you, sir." He had some kind of Latin-type accent.

"And you, Mr Gonzales," Mark said, shaking firmly and briefly. "I have heard a lot about your work. Very impressive. Looking forward to working with you."

"Please, call me Ed," he said. "Everyone does."

"And call me Mark." He gestured towards me. "This is my girlfriend, Bridget Jones."

Eduardo turned his attention to me, came around to take the empty seat beside me. He offered a dazzling smile, then reached out a hand as if to offer me a handshake, too. Instead, though, he bowed slightly at waist, brought hand up and pressed polite, fleeting kiss to back of it. Felt v. flustered.

"Very nice to meet you, Miss Jones," he said.

He released my hand then sat, as Mark and Ron sat too. Turned to look at Mark, who was, as usual, inscrutable; was certain he was having fleeting bad reaction about gallant hand kiss.

Ooh. Mark is finished getting his things ready for morning pickup. Should reassure him that kiss on hand etc. meant nothing at all.

**Mon, 12 Jan**

_9st (not surprising after last night's dinner), cigarettes 7 (panic: where to buy more Silk Cut?), alcohol units 1 (for health purposes), dips in pool 1 (but have paid heavy price), new friends 1 (poss.)._

**8.00 am. **Have just seen Mark off for first day working with the law partners. Felt as if sending child off to first day of new term of school.

Back on track about last night's dinner. Were nearly through our starters (and first cocktail gone) when the remaining of our party arrived. Utter surprise and delight to see women. The men rose again and Ron did introductions:

"This is Ms Soledad Ortiz, our senior partner," said Ron, "and Ms Juliza Villatoro." The former, probably mid-50s, had benevolent-but-authoritative presence in manner of portly nun, with dark hair shot through with grey and bold red specs. The latter was younger; bit of a stunner, to be honest, with long, dark, curly hair drawn back into plait, and warm brown eyes. Both, like Eduardo, were clearly Latin American, not surprising given the case Mark is here to work on.

Again Mark introduced me to the newcomers. Juliza did a brow wrinkle of confusion as he said my name. "Bridget Jones," she said as she sat to the other side of Ed. "Your name's so familiar to me. What is it that you do?"

Took me a moment to realise she meant for work, and said, "I'm a consultant to a television programme in the UK." Said the name, but no spark of recognition.

"Hm," she said with thoughtful expression. "Well. It'll come to me, I'm sure."

Newcomers ordered wine (as did we all) and then before too long, covered plates were brought out along with wine. Did not remember seeing menu at all and was v. confused, until Ron explained that restaurant features a fixed menu.

On plate was artistic arrangement of small slice of chicken breast drizzled with a yellow stripe of what turned out to be a mustard sauce, three new potato halves (tiny, with skin on), and (I swear) five green beans. If this is typical LA meal, no wonder everyone is so thin. On verge of starvation at all times.

Tried to pace self so as not to be first to finish, but also wanted to finish while food was still hot. Caught Mark's expression once or twice and swear he was about to burst out with a laugh. Ended up being first to finish, mostly because they were all engaged in lawyer talk and mouth had nothing to do but eat. Tempted to ask for second entrée as food was barely enough for toddler, let alone adult woman.

After dinner, round of espresso was served with golf-ball-sized scoops of vanilla gelato with minuscule chocolate shavings and slight raspberry drizzle on top. Thought would have cig afterwards and reached into clutch for packet of Silk Cut and lighter when quiet throat clearing came from side—and _not_ the Mark side.

Looked over to Eduardo/Antonio, who shook his head. "Can't, in restaurants or bars."

Was shocked. Could almost understand no smoking in restaurants, but in bars? Thought point of bar was to smoke and drink insensible. "Oh," I said dejectedly.

"You can smoke out back," he said, tilting his head. "Care to join me?"

Glanced to Mark, who was speaking to Soledad intently. "Yes," I said, then to Mark, "Be right back." He glanced to me, saw both Eduardo and me rising at same time, furrowed brows but nodded in acknowledgement all the same.

Eduardo had clearly been here before, walked straight to door. Smoking area was v. large balcony enclosed by waist-high marble gate. Had not realised restaurant was on bit of hillside, so view from balcony was gorgeous, twinkly city at night. Dug into bag for cigarette and with fag perched on lip I lifted my head to see the flame of Eduardo's lighter in offer. "Thank you," I said.

"De nada," he said, then lit his own. "Mark, he does not approve, I think."

"Of smoking? No," I said, taking a long draw. Had only been fifth of whole of day. Other four had been on the sly while Mark was occupied. Said I could smoke in house but still did not like doing so in front of him.

"Yes, of smoking," he said kindly. "I am not being too personal in asking if you have been together long, am I?"

_A bit_, I thought, but smiled and said, "A little over a year." Did not want to go into whole "break up period because of jellyfisher" complication with a man have just met and with whom Mark will have to work for next five months.

"That is lovely," he said. His smile seemed genuine, then he took another drag, looking out to night sky. Really was gorgeous out here, all stars in sky—

Had sudden thought of sad segregation of smokers from society, as had foreseen a couple of years ago, pushed to the fringes to live like lepers. "So how long have smokers been forced to live like this?" I asked him in deep, sepulchral voice.

He laughed in stylish, smooth, European-style way. "The restaurant ban has been in effect since 1995," he explained. "Bar ban took effect the first of this year."

Staggering. "It's finally happened," I said, then explained smokers-as-lepers theory.

Eduardo laughed, but nodded. "Before long we won't even get to smoke in our own cars," he said with sombre gravity, though suspected he might have been taking the piss, a bit. "I have to admit," he went on, "you're not what I was expecting." Suddenly had Law-Council-dinner anxiety creep in. Must have showed on face, as he chuckled a little. "I mean that in a very positive way. Was really expecting someone as serious and staid as Mark, not a witty girl with a glamorous television job." Had vision of mad pre-rehab Richard Finch running around shouting "I'm thinking tits-for-Tuesday, I'm thinking…" but then Eduardo spoke again, quite suddenly, "Oh. But that sounds like an insult to Mark, and I don't mean that at all."

"No offense taken," I said; honestly was a bit pleased to hear insinuation that I might have "settled" for Mark (obviously not true), instead of pompous colleagues of Mark's thinking am third-class citizen. Would never say so to Mark, though.

Stubbed out butt ends into big, bulbous outdoor ashtray thing, then came back inside. Mark looked a bit (and inexplicably) sheepish. Gave him beaming smile as took seat again, put my hand over his. Then I learnt why the sheepishness.

"While you were gone for a smoke," said Juliza with excited brightness, "I realised why your name was so familiar!"

"Oh?" I turned to look at her. "From where?"

"From your absolutely _fantastic_ interview with Colin Firth!" she said in an awed voice. Was both flattered and humiliated. Had not been my finest hour. How had she even seen it? Was only in _The Independent_. Oh God. Had they put article on world wide web? Then her tone turned confessional: "I loved the series when they played it on A&E, so I'd occasionally search the web for updated interviews with Mr Dar—er, Mr Firth. And I remember finding yours. Felt like I was right there with you! Don't blame you for, well…" Then she grinned and winked at me. "The crash at the end."

Felt face go scarlet, though smiled gracefully and thanked her.

"Don't know what women see in that guy," Ron said with a chuckle; the other men laughed, too, but Mark continued to look something between sheepish and a little worried. Did he think we were going to collapse into girlish giggles and fawn over Mr Darcy? (Though come to think, that would be fun. Maybe we will form fast friendship over love of Mr Darcy.)

Soledad, who up to this point had been mostly listening and making very serious and astute conversation, surprised us all by drolly saying, "Well, _I_ wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers."

Couldn't help but all laugh at that. Conversation then moved onto another (safer) topic, and then we were preparing to leave for home. "It was really nice meeting you," Juliza said to me. "If there's anything I can help with, let me know. Maybe I can show you around, take you for lunch or to shopping, if you like."

Said would like that v. much. Love Mark, obviously, but would be nice spending time with another female. Miss Shaz and Jude v. much. (Owe them phone calls, for sure.)

After saying our good nights, we went back to Ron's car for driving home. Wanted to sit with Mark in back for a little cuddle after the Mr Darcy indignity, but thought Ron might be insulted if we treated him like paid driver or similar, so again took front passenger seat.

"I'll be by at about eight for you, Mark," said Ron as we pulled into the drive. "Have a good night, see you then."

"Thanks again for a terrific night," Mark said.

"Yes," I chimed in stupidly.

Once back in the house, kicked off heels then gathered them up to set them nicely by the door. Mark sighed heavily. It was nearly eleven-thirty. Poor man would have to be up in no time.

"I need something more to eat. Starving." He sounded really tired. Maybe annoyed. "You?"

I nodded, relieved had not been alone in feeling dinner was inadequate portion. Was v. sad we had already eaten all éclairs. After poking faces around in freezer, however, we found frozen chicken nugget snacks that only took a few minutes to heat in the microwave. Weird sickly sweet sauce on the side, but they quelled the hunger well enough.

"Need to get my things together for the morning," Mark said with a sort of sigh.

Took his hand in both of mine. "All right," I said. "I'll be waiting for you upstairs."

Gah! Is now nearly nine. Which means is… v. late in London. Need to get to work.

**10.30 am.** More coffee accomplished. Check of messages from work revealed they have not in fact forgotten about me (or made me redundant). Have to review pitch ideas from Monday meeting and return feedback before 10pm tonight. Easy peasy.

Is so beautiful outside, though. V. difficult to concentrate. Surely a quick dip in pool would not hurt. Oodles of time before 10pm. Oodles of time before Mark will even be home. Will go in pool, then do work, then prepare and have dinner ready for when he returns, even at risk of seeming like 50s throwback or traitor to Germaine Greer.

**11.15 am.** Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Have locked self out of house.

Pool was wonderful though. Not sure was worth proving to Mark that self is totally irresponsible person who cannot be left at home alone.

**11.19 am.** Have realised that when closed kitchen window earlier, did not latch. Can climb up onto patio furniture and get inside.

**Noon.** Oh God. Had just gotten through, over kitchen counter, and stepped down onto floor (nearly landing on backside in process) when doorbell went off, accompanied by brisk knocking. Was in bikini with wet hair slowly turning mad. Slipped into jelly mules and pulled damp towel around shoulders. Looked through peephole to see besuited policeman, badge on display, radio on shoulder, mirrored sunglasses and everything.

"Who is it?" I called, as wanted to prove self responsible adult who doesn't just throw open a door.

"LAPD, ma'am," came deep, serious voice. "Had a report of a possible burglary."

Opened door cautiously to come face to face with towering, broad-shouldered, blond Officer Williamson.

"Nope, no burglars here," I said meekly.

"Your name?"

"Bridget Jones."

"Miss Jones. Are you the owner of this residence?" he asked.

Shook head; realised did not actually know who owner of the house was. "I'm staying here as a guest with Mark Darcy," I said. "He's a very well-known lawyer."

"Anything in your possession to confirm this?" he asked.

Shook head again. "Sorry, no."

He looked as if I were mad, then decided on course of action. "Normally I'd take you down for questioning," he said. "But I've never known a criminal to go on a burgling spree in a bikini. Stay there."

Nodded. Couldn't move if wanted to. Was terrified that would be in trouble with the law. Would embarrass Mark so much… oh fuck. Would the US deport me? Both of us?

He turned down the walk a little, talked into the radio on his shoulder, waited, then talked some more. Felt like eternity before he came back. At least he had amused smile on face.

"All right, Miss Jones," he said. "Confirmed with the residence's owner, Ms Soledad Ortiz"—_oh my God_, Mark's boss, of a sort—"that you are entitled to be here." He paused. "Just a warning, this time: be careful about going out for a swim without your key, all right?"

Nodded and gabbled insensibly, "Thank you, Officer, sir. Yes, I will. Thank you."

Came back inside, feeling traumatised. Surely she'll tell Mark. He'll be so embarrassed and furious with me. Am in no mood to work. Want to curl up under duvet and hope he doesn't notice where have gone.

However, must get work done. I know! Will proceed with plan. Will do work, will do fantastic dinner, which will make it all up to Mark and he will forgive me for indignity of police calling his boss about his girlfriend breaking into her house wearing nothing but bikini.

OH GOD.

**12.33 pm.** On top of this, only have one packet of Silk Cut left, as have chain-smoked remainder of open pack in dread of Mark's return. Have ensured last of the butts has been adequately extinguished. Do not need to burn house down on top of other indignities.

**1.00 pm.** Under duvet. Cannot think about work or dinner yet. Too many scenarios swirling around in head resulting in my getting chucked and put on a plane back to London.

**5.15 pm.** All good intentions destroyed, as fell asleep and awakened only by Mark when he came home a bit early. Contrary to expectations, he didn't look angry at all, but he is master of masking his feelings when he needs to. With the duvet drawn up to my to chin, waited for him to speak.

"Heard you had a bit of an adventure today," he said neutrally.

"Mm-hm," I said.

"Got locked out of the house."

"Yes."

"Had to climb back in through a window."

Honestly, was as if he enjoyed tormenting me. "Yes."

"With nothing but your bikini on, no less."

"I know, I'm a total fuck-up," I said, breaking at last under the strain. "I'd intended on doing my work, then making a nice dinner for you," I went on in pathetic tone. "I can't do anything right."

To my surprise, tender smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Oh, Bridget," he said, in gentle, patient tone. He brushed my hair away from my forehead, then leaned and kissed me.

"You're not angry?"

He shook his head, his smile broadening. "We were all in the conference room with Soledad when the call came through. She put it on speakerphone." OH MY BLOODY GOD AND FUCK. "Police dispatch put the officer through from the scene… sort of felt sorry for the chap." Felt sorry for _him_? "Trying to describe the situation, reports of burglary, woman in bikini—"

Pulled duvet over head. Would never be able to look any of them in eye again. However, he tugged it back down, saw that was still in bikini. One brow raised in manner of Bond.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"Yes, you've said that you meant to do your work," he said. "When's your deadline?"

"Ten tonight."

"Hm," he said. His gaze was fixed on point much lower than self's eyes. "I propose Chinese food delivery so that you might focus on work."

"OK," I said cautiously.

"And maybe, before that, I can convince you that I'm not angry." Traced line of bikini tie with his finger. "If it makes you feel better about the others, Soledad gave the officer a piece of her mind. 'So my houseguest got locked outside in her bikini and had to climb in the window. Leave her alone.' Everyone commented on your resourcefulness, darling." Suddenly loved Soledad and other lawyers.

Then he kissed exposed skin between… well, never mind. Am thoroughly convinced Mark is not angry. Best get dressed and to my work before something else, er, comes up.

**9.45 pm.** Tra la! Have finished work with time to spare, have just connected to send it off. We sat on luxurious leather sofa, me on one end, Mark on the other, with feet stretched towards one another, and both did our work. Was such a lovely evening.

Broke for dinner at about eight. V. much enjoyed delicious Chinese noodle dish we had for supper, though Mark says we cannot make it a habit. Agreed wholeheartedly. Will send diet into tailspin, though tried to explain it made up for paltry restaurant meal the night before, like a calorie bank or similar.

"Like when you sleep extra long to bank your sleep," I further explained.

"I see," he said. Was clearly humouring me. "You know that doesn't really work."

"Oh, but it _does_," I said emphatically.

"Anyway, we had the chicken nuggets," he said, clearly interrupting on purpose, before could expound on the sleep-bank theory, "so the notion of making up for yesterday is kind of blown out of the water."

Had totally forgotten about the nuggets, which so distracted me from my dissertation about sleep-banking enough that only just remembered it now.

Anyway, v. g. night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Bridget Jones: A Brand New Start**

By S. Faith, © 2014-2015

Words: 50,000 in 6 chapters  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

**Tues, 13 Jan**

_9st 1½ (blame the Chinese noodles), cigarettes 1 (must ration in manner of World War II), alcohol units 3 (supressed vice made up for in other ways), misinterpreted grand gestures 1 (par for course), excursions out of house 2 (hurrah)._

**8.03 am. **Was awakened three hours ago by terrifying sound of telephone ringing. Mark answered as believed it to be work-related, but eyes flashed to me as he spoke. "No, Mrs Jones, we are still abed. We are eight hours behind you. It is five in the morning."

Was own mother. Could hear her talking in Mark's ear. Probably profusely apologising. Was sure she would not have apologised like that to me.

Mark gave over the phone to me. Instantly proved correct:

"Darling, I am _disappointed_!" she said haughtily. "No call to let me know you were all right! I had to get this telephone number from Elaine Darcy. So humiliating."

"Sorry, Mum," I said. Did feel bad, but honestly. "But if you got the number from Elaine then surely you knew we were here and were all right."

"It's common courtesy, darling!"

"I said I was sorry," I said, then yawned. "Mum, I need to get back to sleep. It's not even light out yet."

"But I wanted to tell you—"

Mark plucked the receiver from my hand and spoke to Mum. "Mrs Jones," he said in that authoritative tone that always makes my knees go weak, "I'll make sure she rings you when she gets up. Yes, yes. All right. Goodbye." And then he put the phone down, settling back down onto the pillow again and snuggling me close. Warm breath against neck, spooned up against him…

Did not go directly back to sleep, but will never say so to Mum.

Now am up after coffee and breakfast with Mark, determined not to fuck things up like yesterday.

**8.05 am.** It has been nice, though, living with Mark Darcy. Sleeping together every night without worrying about which place to go and morning logistics. We rarely get to wake up and have breakfast together when he stays with me or I stay in Holland Park house, as too rushed to get back to respective own place to change for work, so is just enough time for a coffee and croissant at Coins. Is only the start of fourth day (if counting flight), but constant togetherness seems to have strengthened bond and fostered intimacy.

Oh bugger. Should ring Mum as promised.

**8.10 am.** Except am not sure how to call from US.

**8.12 am.** Right. Maybe should call Mark to ask. Surely he knows. But do not want to bother him at work.

**8.15 am.** As if thought vibes activated telephonic lines, phone began to ring. Was not sure if should answer but decided since am living here too, it might be for me. Even if have not given number to anyone. So answered it. Was Mark, reminding me to call my mum.

"I was just about to," I said, "but I'm not sure I know how to."

"Did you look on the notepad there by the phone?" Mark at his quietly amused best.

Looked as suggested, to see list printed in Mark's tidy hand, instructions for dialling UK. At bottom was the house's number (including what bits to give to friends at home for dialling from UK) and his number at work (underscoring only the bits to dial from the house if I need to call him). V. appreciative though a bit dismayed at list looking like a list meant for seven-year-old. "Oh," I said. "You know me too well. Thank you."

"Of course, darling," he said, failing to catch the sarcasm in my tone. "You'll note that at the top of the phone base is the caller ID box."

Gasped. The fabled caller ID, with bright display showing same phone number on paper, along with "ORTIZ GONZALES &" for caller name. Think how wonderful and terrifying it would have been to have had this during Daniel telephone frenzy. "Yes," I said in awed whisper.

He chuckled. "Yes, you can scroll and see a history of incoming calls," he said; have waxed rhapsodic about caller ID to Mark before, not that need it now. He then added, "Not that there's anything of interest there—we've only been here since Saturday."

"Of course not." Though why even state the obvious? Hm. Curious.

"Well, best call your mum before she melts down," said Mark with light tone. "I'll see you later, darling. Love you."

"Love you too," I said, then put phone down. Eyes drawn to up/down arrows next to caller ID window. Will just flip back a little. Must explore the miracle of caller ID.

**8.20 am.** Really is quite amazing. Though is odd entry from Monday. Do not know who or what "LILY JANE ANDERS" is.

**8.21 am.** Must not obsess.

**8.22 am.** Am sure is wrong number. Or looking for previous resident. No big deal.

**8.25 am.** Must not call number back. Must call Mum. Right.

**9.15 am.** Have just extracted self from call with Mum. Really wasn't so bad, actually, but carbon copy of so many prior conversations. "Hello, darling, guess what?", followed by announcement of latest daughter-of-friend to be pregnant, recent shenanigans with pavement grades in Grafton Underwood, plans for holiday with Una and Mavis, etc. Still, was reassuring to have familiar piece of home here.

Ooh, should call girls. Though which first?

Oh, telephone!

**9.19 am.** Odd. Was that same mystery number from Monday. Decided to pick it up.

"Hello. Is Mr Darcy there?" Was female voice. Young-sounding.

"No, he's not."

"Oh." Paper shuffling. "I'm so sorry to bother you. I'll try the work number. Thanks."

With that, she put down phone. What is going on?

**9.21 am.** Must not assume worst. Must trust there is simple explanation, and is not, for example, escort service or similar. Mark has more than proven he is trustworthy.

**10.05 am.** Was just about to ring Shazzer in full paranoid meltdown (so ashamed of self, especially in retrospect) when doorbell rang.

Looked through peep-hole to see nothing but wall of green and red. Opened door to find self facing enormous bouquet of long-stemmed roses of the deepest ruby red, already within gorgeous vase object. Felt eyes tear up.

"Miss Jones?" came a voice from deep within jungle of flowers, then saw a face peek around the bouquet. Was young whippersnapper who looked like the bouquet might be too much for him.

"Yes, please bring it in," I said.

He set bouquet down on occasional table in foyer. Only then did uniform top become visible: LILY JANE'S FLOWERS. Then in tiny letters under: LILY JANE ANDERSON, OWNER. And phone number from caller ID. Felt foolish. All clicked together.

"There you are, ma'am," he said. Forgave him "ma'am" debacle as he was obviously 12. And had just brought magnificent roses that were already making the house smell amazing.

"Thank you," I said moonily.

He smiled in rather stiff manner, then left. (Oh. Wonder if was supposed to tip him?)

Turned to bouquet again to admire. Spotted card on weird card-fork. Here is what card says:

_Life without you would be like California without sun. So glad you could come here with me. There's no one else with whom I'd rather be halfway across the world, paradise or no. _

_M xx_

And Mark thinks he's not poetic. Bah.

Picked up phone, dialled the work number, not caring if disturbing important meeting. Rang for long time, then was, bizarrely, patched through to Juliza.

"Sorry, he's on a call," she said as I explained was trying to reach Mark.

"Oh," I said.

"Something I can help with?"

"No, I—" I began, then stopped. There was something she could do. "Actually, I would like to do something really nice for Mark, but haven't the faintest idea where to begin."

"Oh!" she said, and it was the sort of enthusiasm that is definitely not faked. "Why don't we do lunch, then? We can talk about what you could do for him."

Had only been hoping for ideas, but remembered she had previously offered. "Yes," I said. "That'd be lovely."

So now must get fully made up, as she will be here by noon. Hurrah!

**10.09 am.** Will call the girls later. Or send emails when I check work when I get back.

**10.10 am.** Suppose I should give Grant D Pike the number here. Surely he has the sense not to ring at 5.00 am like my mother.

**10.52 am.** Was just getting ready when telephone rang. Was Mark. Nearly sobbed all of eye makeup off again thanking him for the beautiful roses.

"Just a small token," he said tenderly. "I'm glad you like them."

"I _love_ them," I said. "I love _you_."

"It was my pleasure," he said, sounding a little embarrassed. "So how's the day going? Getting some work done?"

"Actually…" Went on to explain about calling mum (which he knows is never short), the flower delivery, my phone call to the office, resulting in the upcoming lunch outing with Juliza. (Decided to omit florist caller ID panic as was not productive.)

"Ah, so that's where she's going," he said, a penny obviously dropping. "Well. Have fun, and I'll see you later."

We said our love-yous and goodbyes, and each put down the phone. Am really at a loss what to get the man who apparently has everything. Aside from work and the football, should know what else Mark has interest in, but do not. Funnily, am reminded of Jamie's Becca, handing over variety of career-related Christmas gifts to me—suppose am not exactly broadcasting hobbies and interests. Am not a painter, knitter, or similar. Hope Mark does not secretly hate my gifts as much as I hate Becca's. Except, of course, for the _Making of Pride and Prejudice_ books, which I love.

Best keep getting ready. Do not want to not be ready when Juliza turns up.

**4.45 pm.** Bloody brilliant afternoon. Juliza was ten minutes late (girl after own heart) in bright yellow convertible with top down, then whisked self away to trendy-looking Japanese bistro close to the beach. Sushi portions were more in line with reality, accompanied with delicious sake.

V. g. long discussion about Mark. Conclusion is that he does not need _things_ but rather _experiences_. Have only just got here so it seems silly to arrange a mini-break, but things already getting v. critical with work, so a planned decompression is ideal.

Have narrowed it down to either a stay at seaside resort (suggested: Santa Barbara or Malibu) or trip to wine country (Napa). Coast is closer, but Napa, despite requiring short plane ride, would mean could also visit San Francisco, and therefore Tom. But can only be for a weekend, and would want v. much to see sights in San Francisco, too.

Maybe should call the girls and Tom to see what they think. Though obviously Tom will choose himself. (Have been in such pampered heaven here that have called none of my friends. Am v. terrible person.)

**4.48 pm.** Must talk to someone about this. Probably too late to call the girls, though.

Will have cigarette and think.

**5.15 pm.** Have just put down phone chatting with Tom, who was shocked that self was in same state as he.

"Of _course_ you must come to San Francisco!" he proclaimed. "Will take you to the pier, the trolleys, all the nightclubs."

"Um," I said. "I'm here with Mark, remember?"

"He can come too if he likes! He'll turn heads down in the Castro."

Could not help but laugh. Have missed Tom so.

"It's supposed to be for rest and relaxation," I said. "You know he's not really a nightclub sort of person."

The more I thought about it, though, the more I loved the idea of going and seeing Tom, soothing the faint pangs of homesickness was beginning to feel. So Tom is going to ask around to see what he can find. Custom agent boyfriend Carl might know of something nice.

**5.37 pm.** Tom is miracle worker or similar. Has found absolutely perfect retreat. Is in the misty redwood forests south of San Francisco, a lovely, private tree-house cabin with hot tub and all amenities. (Includes electricity and running water, obviously.) Not exactly wine country, but is okay.

Oh. Will ring tomorrow to see about availability, as Mark will be home and have not decided on supper.

**6.10 pm.** Mark home. Decreed delivery as is too wiped to help with the cooking. Poor Mark. Wonder if he minds pizza.

**10.30 pm.** Post-pizza rejuvenation. We have just returned from drive to beach in moonlight. Brisk evening, starry sky, lovely beach. Though had repeated feelings of imminent doom and accompanying adrenalin flush due to driving on opposite side than am used to (seems worse at night when it's dark and headlights flash in face). But was wonderful nonetheless.

Determined to pull relaxing mini-break together as soon as possible. And find more Silk Cut, obviously.

**Weds, 14 Jan**

_9st 2 (must make healthy salad or similar), cigarettes 3 (have blown ration but necessary), alcohol units 2 (also necessary), mini-breaks planned 1, mini-breaks poss. doomed to fail 1._

**8.15 am. **Have just seen Mark off, so can now plan relaxation mini-break. Oh. Maybe should give Shaz and Jude calls. V. bad friend.

Roses still gorgeous and redolent.

**9.30 am.** Have just talked to both girls in turn. Both were still at work so could not talk long. Jude is practically just back from honeymoon herself (two lavish weeks in Venice) and Richard is already showing signs that tiger stripes have not changed much.

"He resents being given pocket money like a child," she said in all-too-familiar sheep's voice, clearly from the privacy of the ladies' toilet. "I resent that he blows it so quickly with nothing to show for it."

Made appropriately sympathetic noises and reassurances, but had to almost literally bite down on tongue to keep self from saying, "I told you so."

Chat with Shaz was much cheerier. She and Simon are still in throes of shag drunkenness / new love. Can only imagine Mark and I have caused similar diabetes-inducing sweetness to those in close proximity. Though is v. weird to have conversation with Shaz that does not involve feminist rant. Feel as if am speaking to Stepford Wife or similar.

**9.35 am.** Have checked work assignments and thank God and all his saints I did, as must do work tonight.

**9.37 am.** Oh bugger. Was from yesterday and was due today.

**9.38 am.** No, no. Have misread. Is for tomorrow. Need cigarette to calm self.

**9.39 am.** Shit. Only three left of what have brought. Must find cigarettes.

**10.10 am.** Have just rung up Juliza to ask about when would be best weekend for planned minibreak.

"This weekend would be ideal," she said, "as it's a long weekend. You could even leave sometime tomorrow. I'm sure we can handle everything."

Apparently Monday is Martin Luther King Jr. Day and so no state business will happen. Is equivalent to bank holiday weekend. Do not know, however, if can pull together minibreak in so short a time. Panic and anxiety over planning relaxation minibreak would negate effect of relaxation minibreak.

Took deep breath. "So who could I call about arranging transport up to San Francisco?"

**10.25 am.** Tra la, have booked cabin, amazingly enough despite short notice. Cannot believe cabin was available! All set for Friday through Monday morning. Can fly back Monday afternoon or night. In speaking to proprietor, she advised is better to fly to San Jose. Good to know.

**10.57 am.** Have booked flight. Happily the flights were v. cheap as Los Angeles to San Jose is considered commuter flight (mind-boggling thought when own work commute is trying enough). Extra money from 'paid leave' plus pay for current work means was able to treat Mark. Feel v. pleased with self, in manner of Mother Theresa.

**11.35 am.** Oh dear. Have just rung up Tom to tell him all is arranged. Conversation went something like this:

Tom: So when's the trip?

Me: Friday!

Tom: [pause] _This_ Friday?

Me: Yes.

Tom: Friday, the 16th of _January_.

Me: Yes.

Tom: [long silence] Um, hon, it's January. Winter. It'll be coming down buckets there.

Wanted to throttle Tom. When I asked him why did he suggest it, he said he didn't realise it was for _imminent_ minibreak. Cannot stay angry at Tom. However, do feel as if have already fucked it up in manner of booking holiday in Thailand during monsoon season. Gah. And now have smoked penultimate cigarette without even thinking. Did not even get the pleasure of savouring it.

**11.47 am.** Had to ring Tom back again. Devastated to learn they do not sell Silk Cut in America, though Carl might be able to get some at duty-free in the airport.

"What do you recommend in the meanwhile?" I asked.

"I've taken to smoking Marlboro," he said languidly.

May have to launch expedition.

**12.05 pm.** Have rung up Mark to ask where are car keys.

"Why?" he asked suspiciously. So told him. He did not answer right away. He obviously does not approve of smoking, but the thought of self operating strange car all on own was giving him greater pause.

"Tell me what it is you want," he said at last. "Ron can take me to a shop on our way back."

Can make it until he gets home, surely. Ooh! Will have dip in pool.

**1.10 pm.** Pool was lovely. Did not even lock self out of house. Progress.

Should get down to work, then can plan healthy, lovely meal.

**4.45 pm.** Right. Most of work done and now have put chicken breasts in oven with salt and pepper. Have guessed at setting for baking the chicken as are not gas marks but rather temperatures, and in Fahrenheit, no less. Also have washed lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber and even apple to make big salad. Now to find something to put on salad.

**5.05 pm.** Oh God, something smells like is on fire.

**5.15 pm.** Temperature apparently much too hot as smallest bits of chicken had begun to burn. Searched online and found that setting it to Broil, which sounded like good idea at the time, turned out not to be.

Fortunately is salvageable. Have turned down the dial to recommended setting and all seems well now. Hope that chicken will finish cooking by the time Mark is back.

**5:35 pm.** Found olive oil and vinegar. Vinaigrette! Hurrah!

**5.50 pm.** Chicken is done. Have just pulled from oven and have also just heard vehicle in drive. Hope Mark will like. So excited to see reaction.

**7.30 pm.** Mark came into house. Heard him approach the kitchen making loud (almost exaggerated) sniff noises, then stopped in doorway.

"What's that?" he asked tentatively.

"Dinner," I said.

He brought his brows together, looked over to where roasting pan with the chicken breasts was resting on the range. "You cooked?"

Bristled. "Yes." Honestly, did not need to sound so surprised.

He chuckled, walked over to sweep me into his embrace. "It smells fantastic. Thank you," he murmured as he kissed the hair at my temple.

Found some plates then served up one breast chicken each and a side of salad with oil and vinegar drizzled over top. White wine at dinner table with candles all lit. Was v. g.

Chicken was a little dry, though still perfectly edible, especially when dragged through the oil and vinegar. Mark shot smiles to me as he ate. Told him about my day, gabbling about calling Shaz and Jude, and a bit on what we talked about.

"I told Jude marriage would be hell," I said off-handedly (because Richard is Satan incarnate), just as Mark began to sputter on his dinner.

Despite this, Mark finished everything on the plate. After he did, he sipped his wine and touched his table napkin to his lips. "That was marvellous," he said, the coughing fit forgotten.

Made non-committal sound.

"I know you're thinking it was too dry," he said wryly. "Don't worry about it. If it were bad I hardly would have finished it, would I? In fact, if there were more I might have another serving."

Offered smile. Suppose he was right, after all. Not exactly gagging sounds.

He leaned towards me and kissed me. "Well done, darling." Then he stood, swept away the plates and quickly loaded the dishwasher to run. Blimey. Was really determined to keep his word.

"Oh, before I forget," he said, went out of the room, then came back with something in his hand. "For you."

It was a packet of cigarettes, per Tom's specification.

"Thank you," I said with gratitude, taking it from him. Wanted to burst to tell him about minibreak right there and then, but felt the moment was not quite right.

**8.59 pm.** Phone just rang, which Mark swept up.

"Darcy," he said. Frisson of excitement at authoritative manner, even in picking up phone. His gaze flicked to me. "Yes, she's right here." But he didn't hand it over to me, seemed to still be listening. "Oh. Ah. Well." He looked really confused. "Here you are."

"Oh Bridge," Tom said as soon as I'd said hello. "I put my foot in it, didn't I?"

"What?"

"Joked about you naturally not being packed yet."

Oh God. And I hadn't said anything yet.

"Anyway, just calling to say Carl says no Silk Cut. You'll have to make do with the local stuff, darling."

Said our goodbyes then turned to a still-stunned-looking Mark.

"Surprise," I said weakly.

"You're leaving?" he said, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy. "I thought you were happy here. Thought you liked the law partners."

Suddenly realised exactly what it was Mark thought, and ran over to him. "Oh, no, no!" I gabbled. "I'm not leaving! I arranged a surprise for us for the weekend."

He blinked rapidly.

"Yes," I went on. "Had Juliza's help. We're going up north. We'll see Tom and then go to the woods."

It was as if I had begun speaking Swahili to him. "Pardon?"

Then explained how had taken it upon myself to arrange nice relaxing long weekend in Santa Cruz, that we were leaving tomorrow, going to San Francisco to see Tom, then down to the cabin in the woods through Sunday night. He still only stood there and stared at me for what felt like forever, until he suddenly threw his arms around me and held me close.

Then he kissed me and… mmm.

**9.03 pm.** Oh fuck, oh fuck. Forgot still have work to do. Will be difficult to do work in post-shag haze. Remaining Silk Cut already smoked post-shag so must break into Marlboro.

**9.30 pm.** Went onto terrace so as to not smoke in Mark's face while working. Lit cig, inhaled, and immediately launched into violent coughing fit.

Learnt the hard way that Marlboro cigs are v. strong compared to Silk Cut.

Mark came instantly to terrace, alarm evident on face. I shook my head, waved my hand, universal body language for _no-no-really-am-all-right_.

Bloody Tom.

**9.32 pm.** _Feel_ much stronger than Silk Cut. Can feel rush of nicotine coursing through system. Now have the will to finish assignment. And tell boss will be unavailable for the weekend.

**10.20 pm.** Bloody hell. Nicotine has already started to leave system and now feel like an addict in detox. Craving for cig is insane. At least am done with work, but will never get to sleep.

Feel like pitching entire box in trash. Obviously are meant for men, hence no comment when Mark purchased them. But what to do now? Tomorrow?

**11.35 pm.** Mark asked what was wrong, so told him.

"Could ask for something milder for you tomorrow," he offered. Nodded in agreement. Must be love. Know he hates me smoking. "Will another now make you feel better?" he asked.

"For a few minutes, at most," I said.

Mark then offered another suggestion: night-time hot tub under the stars.

"Oh yes please," I chirped. "Where's my bikini?"

He shook his head with a playful smirk.

We then undressed and slipped into dressing gowns and then out into the night and the hot tub (ensuring door did not lock behind us). It was dark save for the lights glowing from the house, so was v. sure we would not be seen. Like naughty school kids we doffed the dressing gowns then got into the water. Was v. g. distraction from withdrawal from cigs from hell.

Am obviously v. pernicious influence on Mark Darcy. How else to explain his suggesting a skinny dip under the moonlight in Los Angeles?

**Thurs, 15 Jan**

_9st 1 (one pound burnt off by nicotine, surely), cigarettes 5 (2 of them Marlboro smoked v. slowly so as not to trigger withdrawal), alcohol units 3, airports 2, transportation fuck-ups 2 (could be worse)._

**8.30 am. **Cannot believe Mark is actually working today, but promises he will be home early, certainly in time for 5.30 flight. Won't be able to do a stroke of work, so hope nothing is needed for tomorrow.

Am charged to begin the packing. Feels a bit strange to pack subset of already fairly spare wardrobe. Has been strange, too, being in this sunny, warm bubble, and keep forgetting it is January. Will probably need to bring jumpers, etc.

**8.39 am.** Have just had realisation that have not even been in Los Angeles a week. Surely is not normal to plan immediate minibreak away from sunny paradise, even for someone who loves minibreaks as much as self does. Still, is normal to want to explore a new country, surely? Pictures surely do not do beauty of redwoods justice.

**9.45 am.** There. Have put together perfect capsule wardrobe for the weekend, jeans, skirts, light tops, shorts, jumpers, jelly mules, kitten heels, comfortable shoes for plane travel. Makeup, hair brush, hair dryer (and converter), creams, lotions, etc. Basically contents of sponge bag.

**10.10 am.** Mark just rang. Told him had already finished with the packing.

"Wonderful," he said. "Half of what you brought here?"

Ha, ha.

"Oh," he continued, "don't forget my shaving kit."

"Oh," I said. "Of course not."

Had not realised he meant his packing too. Fuck. No idea what he might want.

**10.21 am.** Should have realised would be easier to pack for Mark. His clothing, while v. sexy on him, is oddly lacking in variety, even casual wear. How come have not noticed that before? But have chosen some trousers, shirts, a jumper, shoes.

**10.22 am.** And shaving kit, obviously.

**11.05 am.** Just logged in to check for work update. Feedback on work sent last night with just a few changes suggested. Will do, then have lunch. When send back, will also remind them am going for the weekend.

**1.03 pm.** Mark home much earlier than expected, said hello to me at the computer, went upstairs and then came back down with soft-looking eyes. "You packed for me?"

Was confused, but nodded. "I thought you wanted me to. You know. The shaving kit."

"Oh, darling," he said. "I was joking." Came close to me, then gave me hug. "But thank you."

Hugged him back, though joked, "You're still going to double check, aren't you?"

He chuckled. "Just want to make sure you didn't miss anything, that's all."

**1.08 pm.** Apparently forgot passports. Not that need one to travel to another part of same state, but is better than driving licence in a pinch.

**2.30 pm.** "Bridget." Mark. "Curious to know. How are we getting to the airport?"

Oh fuck.

**4.37 pm. LAX.** Mark immediately rang up for taxi and after a few tense moments we learnt that one could be there within 45 minutes. Seemed like ominous portent to weekend, but we made it to airport with plenty of time to spare.

(Mark had brought home another cigarette brand for me that seems much more palatable. Have packed the Marlboro cigarettes, which will throw at Tom.)

Arrived then went through security and got all checked in, then found something to eat at airport bar. Had glass of wine, which was v. g.

Now we are waiting to board.

**5.45 pm.** Am now on plane, which is terrifyingly small. Fortunately is short flight. About one hour in the air. Seems like miracle.

**7.05 pm. SJC.** Oh fuck. Did not realise San Jose, San Francisco and Santa Cruz were not right next to each other. Expected to take taxi between them, but turns out San Francisco is about an hour's drive away. Mark has gone to hire car until Monday, so that we can drive up, see Tom, then drive to cabin and back here to airport.

**7.14 pm.** Mark, returning from car hire counter with keys in hand. "Tom is expecting us, yes?"

Fair question. Had address and everything. Nodded.

"And we're staying with him tonight?"

Oh God. Am terrible planner.

**7.40 pm.** Now on road to San Francisco. Is lovely drive.

Mark asked me to phone Tom, though, and let him know we are on the way. And to verify we have bed for the night.

"Of course, darling!" he said. "Was expecting it. Though usually the dog is in there during the day, but we've given it a thorough once-over and it's spotless."

**7.44 pm.** Have relayed information to Mark, who looked dubious, but at least assured now that we have a place to sleep.

**11.24 pm.** Exhausted but here at Tom's. And Carl's! Is v. nice place in Castro neighbourhood. Carl is very cute, very sweet, and a bit younger than was expecting, channelling a bit of Rupert Everett from _My Best Friend's Wedding_.

Dog is tiny, frenetic little thing am afraid will step on by accident. But is charming in its own way, and very affectionate.

"What's its name?"

Tom looked a bit embarrassed, his gaze sliding over to Mark. "It's, er, Mr Darcy," he said at last. "But he's been named that since before Carl and I started going out."

Carl looked a bit confused as we had not been introduced to Carl with surnames, just "Bridget and Mark." Could just see the discomfort in Mark's expression.

When they brought us to the room, found quickly that Mr Darcy (the dog) had left a special present on the floor in there. Tom appropriately apologetic and horrified while Carl went off to get the cleaning supplies. For his part, Mark looked stoic. Thought surely he would insist we get hotel or something after that, but he didn't.

"Let's go down the street for something to eat," Tom said brightly. "Surely you must be hungry."

"We'll put Mr Darcy in the crate," Carl added.

Tom was, at that point, forced to explain why the comment made Mark look uncomfortable. Carl, in turn, slapped his hand over his mouth then gabbled apologies.

"It's quite all right," Mark said. "And yes, that sounds quite nice. I'm famished."

So we went to lovely place called The Metro, which served Chinese food and incredibly good (and strong) cocktails. Smashing time. Could not help noticing that Mark, in his trousers, shirt, and sport jacket, was attracting the attention of quite a few young men (not that Mark is geezer, is only 41, but the oglers are mid-20s at best). If he noticed he said nothing, though he did have two cocktails.

We then went to patisserie for dessert. Chocolate torte for me and crème brûlée for Mark. Was so good to catch up (and to see!) Tom, but am afraid we dominated conversation. Mark didn't seem to mind. He had lazy, happy smile on face.

**2.03 am.** After return we had more wine and chatted. Mark too. Now have come to bed as more travelling tomorrow.

Mark was chuckling to himself just now. "I felt a bit like a science experiment or zoo exhibit tonight," he said. I asked him why. "You and me, a straight couple, in the Castro. Felt like I was being scrutinised to see whether or not I might actually kiss a girl."

"Oh, Mark," I said to him with a giggle, putting my arms around his waist. "That's _not_ why you were being scrutinised."

Mmm. Bedtime.

**Fri, 16 Jan**

_8st 11 (does not seem possible; perhaps scale is off?), cigarettes 3 (saintly), alcohol units half-bottle (but was champagne)._

**10.30 am. **Oh bugger. Have overslept. Well, not overslept for me, but for Mark? Definitely overslept. Was nice, though, to wake up naturally and not to alarm clock or similar.

**11.15 am.** Are showered and made up, and we are all going back to patisserie for breakfast. Tom says they have great coffee, and best of all, chocolate croissants. Hurrah!

**1.45 pm.** All fed and watered, and now en route back south. We were going to take the Pacific Coast Highway right along the ocean, but is (according to patisserie owner) an El Niño year and rainstorms can be v. dangerous, so we are going back the same way we came. Plus, am told scenery through Santa Cruz mountains is beautiful too.

Felt v. emotional saying goodbye to Tom. Told him I hoped he is not planning to live here forever. "Of course not, Bridgeline," he said. "Going home in February."

"Oh, good!" I said brightly.

He continued on, though, as if I hadn't spoken, in conspiratorial tone: "They'll only let you stay for six months as a tourist. But going to see about a visa to stay longer."

"Oh," I said again. Didn't know that about tourist stay. Well, Mark's job's only five months, so of course he didn't freak out about not having visa on hand. Do not really need it, after all.

**2.15 pm.** Have just left Route 101 for Route 85, now heading south. So exciting! Going to stop for a bit to get a bite of food. Chocolate croissant only lasts so long. (Bought a couple for the road, but Mark wants something savoury and with a bit more protein.)

**3.05 pm.** Have just turned off of major highway to something smaller and more crowded by trees. Suddenly civilisation was just gone. Twisty turny but v. beautiful. Would probably be prettier in sunshine, but is not like clouds and occasional rain was unexpected.

**3.45 pm.** Have arrived!

**5.12 pm.** Took a little longer than the expected hour and half to get here due to snack break, scary mountain road and intermittent curtain of rain, but we are here and it is, despite rain, magnificent. Did check in, v. nice people running place (Polly and Ed, pensioners by the look of it), though they hastened to point out that is not exactly peak tourist season so restaurant there in the lodge has more limited hours than usual. "There's a kitchenette in the cabin, coffee and the like, but you can run down to Santa Cruz for other stuff if you need." Polly gestured in vague Santa-Cruz-ish direction. "About ten minutes that way. There's a Safeway there."

"Thank you very much," said Mark, as always at his most polite. Polly smiled and her cheeks, I swear, went pink. (Mark does charming Englishman quite well.)

We scaled ladder/stairs up (landing mid-way, with enclosure, hot tub) and upon reaching the top were quite literally left breathless (more than just from climbing ladder/stairs). Went to stand out on balcony, roof overhead, arms around each other, just basking in nature. Tree-house-style cabin affords glorious view of tree-covered mountains, which, at present, are swathed in low-hanging clouds, though is not raining here at the moment. And the scent of the redwood trees! Spicy and sweet yet earthy/woody. Nothing quite like it.

Felt Mark take in long breath, then exhale slowly. "Didn't realise how much I needed this break already," he murmured, resting his chin on the top of my head. "I know we've only been here in America a week, but ramping up on this case to come up to speed with everyone else… it's been so draining." Pressed kiss into hair. "It should be easier from now on, but… I don't know what I would have done without you here."

Squeezed my arm around his waist, tightened my fingers on his hip, feeling simultaneously pleased with self, and emotional, as if might burst out in tears. Said only, "Just happy you like it."

He turned me, kissed me, then held me close. "Come on. Let's see how the place fares on the inside."

Big sitting room with crackling fireplace, warm and inviting, with broad expanse of windows to gaze out at the mountains from the comfort of the sofa. Carried bags into bedroom. Lovely, v. large bed. Bathroom (en suite) has shower and usual facilities. Lack of bathtub OK since is hot tub. The kitchen area—kitchenette—has fridge, stovetop, coffee maker, microwave, and basket of sweeteners and powdered lightener. Out of habit, I suppose, opened the fridge and gasped. Was bottle of champagne, and on the counter beside fridge, previously unnoticed, sat a pair of flutes.

"What is it?" Mark asked, concerned, so I told him.

"Don't know why," I added. "I didn't ask for this."

"Maybe they think we're honeymooning around California," he said with a smirk and a wink. "Might as well enjoy it."

Didn't realise he meant right then, but he pulled the bottle from the fridge, popped the cork, then poured us each a flute. Bubbly went right to head, got v. giggly and… well, able to confirm that bed is v. accommodating. (Must cement impression that is honeymoon, after all.)

Oof, best get to restaurant for some dinner. Am famished.

**10.30 pm.** Bliss. Had fantastic dinner in restaurant—steak and potatoes, green beans; v. g. and typical American fare, am told—then cherry pie for pudding with glop of vanilla ice cream on top. Dare not think of the calorie count, which am studiously avoiding this year.

Back to cabin, sitting on sofa by fire. All the lights are down. Is dark outside, not even a moon tonight. We're so far from the city that the stars are exceedingly bright and clear in the sky (between cloudbanks, that is). Mark has dozed off on the sofa; think will wake him soon so he can go to proper bed and sleep without risking pain in neck or similar.

Nice to watch him sleep, though. Untroubled by stress of day, so peaceful-looking—

Gah!

**10.34 pm.** Was Mark coming up out of dead sleep to scold self. "Bridget," he said in growl. "Put that bloody diary away."

Right. Bedtime. But before, there's champagne to finish.

**Mon, 19 Jan**

_8st 7 (weight that self feels), cigarettes 5 (to calm nerves after near-death experience), alcohol units 7 (same), faux pas 2._

**8.47 am. **Weekend has been so nice: weather was mostly cooperative during day, downpours reserved for evenings when patter of rain was soothing. Managed to get in a couple of hot-tub dips, which were very nice. Being in enclosure meant no bikini needed. And no scale in bath. Saturday morning, asked Mark opinion on weight. "What were you yesterday?" he said. Told him. He stood, swooped me up in his arms as if carrying self off to bed, then said, "Less than that, then." Then did swoop self off to bed. Love him.

Something bothering Mark this morning, though. Starting to fear that, unlike during work week when he leaves for (and is occupied by) work, being in cabin with me away from usual civilisation has driven Mark a little mental. He was a bit snappish this morning as we had breakfast, then said abruptly that he was going pop over by himself to Santa Cruz for a few things for the drive back to San Jose airport, where we must be in order to catch flight at 3.30 pm.

**9.24 am.** Weird. Mark returned and is acting as if nothing had been bothering him this morning. Has brought chocolate croissants and cappuccinos from the coffee shop in town.

**9.43 am.** Hm.

"Sorry I was such a grouch this morning," he said as we finished the coffees and pastries, a second breakfast of sorts, standing at the railing of the balcony to take in one last view of the countryside. "I…" He ran his hand over his hair. "Think maybe I'm just a little irritated that the weekend's ending."

"It's all right," I said, putting my arm around him.

**10.09 am.** Oh my God.

Drew away after hug, went to turn to walk back into house, and did not realise had gotten self turned around. Nearly tried walking off the balcony where the ladder is, but Mark grasped my wrist in the nick of time.

Heart racing. Have had to have cigarettes to soothe self. Mark has even brought me shot of brandy (had no idea was brandy in house). Feeling better.

**10.21 am.** Cuddle and a bit of a snog has left self feeling better still.

**10.42 am.** Have checked out and now on the way north to San Jose. Lunch, return hired car, then check in for flight. A fond farewell to the beautiful redwoods.

**7.02 pm. Home (LA).** Stepped in it a bit. Saw sign in San Jose for Japanese Gardens and expressed interest in seeing it before realising what had said, remembering cruel ex-wife. Mark said only that he didn't think we had time. If the reference bothered him he didn't really show it, but still felt terrible.

But check-in/flight/etc. went v. quickly, and before knew it was back in LA. Came back to several messages on answerphone about work (Mark, obviously) and now he is returning calls, having already snapped back into work mode.

Said we could order a pizza for dinner. Strangely have no appetite for it yet.

**7.36 pm.** Mark found self out on terrace, placed hand tenderly on shoulder. "Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to get on the phone the moment we stepped in, but they couldn't wait."

"It's all right," I said, and meant it. After all, that was why he was in LA. Am just tag-along. Was grateful that at least they did not call the mobile phone.

"I'm _really_ sorry," he said, then turned me and gave me long hug. "Thank you for the weekend." When he drew away, he said, a sweet smile on his face, "There's pizza on the way. I'll pour you some wine. All right?"

Smiled back. Couldn't help it. Must have been feeling the last-day-of-minibreak blues, too. "All right."

**8.58 pm.** Feeling _much_ cheered. We had the pizza and the wine, got a bit squiffy, giggled on the sofa until the giggling turned to kissing. Now going to retire early.


	3. Chapter 3

**Bridget Jones: A Brand New Start**

By S. Faith, © 2014-2015

Words: 50,000 in 6 chapters  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

**Weds, 11 Feb**

_8st 13 (attribute to time in pool, rather, hot tub), cigarettes 7 (Valentine's related anxiety, for good reason), alcohol units 2 (practically Mother Theresa given circumstances), number of times have said 'fuck' 72 (per hour, approx.)._

**8.47 am.** Valentine's Day is this weekend, Saturday, and is ridiculous to be in panic given that have been living in Los Angeles with love of life for past month. Surely a good Valentine's is a certainty.

**8.50 am.** Suppose should check to see if there is something from work. Have never loved work more than have in the last month.

**9.02 am.** Fuck. Hate sodding work.

**9.04 am.** Am receiving award for Sit Up Britain and must attend. They are paying to fly self back to London for award show and publicity. Two weeks total. Leave _to-bloody-morrow_. Apparently ticket will be waiting for pickup at British Airways counter.

**9.05 am.** Have surely cursed self by mentioning perfect circumstances for perfect Valentine's Day.

**9.45 am.** Per email instruction, have rung up bearer of bad news, my friend Talitha, to confirm flight details. Feel as if have brought this on myself for having recommended someone so capable take over presenter duties for the show. Have known her from work since self was mere researcher/reporter, and she, a news reader.

"Rotten timing, I know," she said, not without sympathy. "I'm sorry, but Grant is simply _insisting_ you attend. In the spirit of equality, he wants to highlight the fact that women are behind the show's improvements." Pause—distinct inhalation of cigarette. "Plus, I'll be going too. We'll have fun together."

"Right. Of course we will." Up until this point, have never been close to Talitha in same way as Sharon, Jude and Tom, but cannot hurt to expand one's circle of friends. Having a bit of a mentor to boot could not hurt. She is well-respected, professional, drop-dead-gorgeous older woman to which should aspire. Decided this would be the silver lining.

**9.51 am.** And picking up more Silk Cut. This American brand is not terrible, but is not quite same.

**12.05 pm.** Mark just rang to see how everything was and had to break the bad news to him. Could tell he was v. disappointed, though put on brave face and made point to praise the fact that was being recognised for hard work.

"I'm sorry about having to miss Valentine's again," I said sadly, thinking of last year how it was Mark who had to be away, but how he'd more than made it up with the lovely ski-weekend surprise.

"I'm sorry too," he said. Could tell he really meant it. "And you leave Friday, you said?"

Heart sank again. "No. Tomorrow."

"Oh." Long pause. "I wish I could go with you. Would only be right after all of your supporting me… but I just can't, darling. Things are ramping up and I just… _can't_."

He sounded so pained, so in need of a hug. Had he always sounded so vulnerable and somehow had managed never to notice? "I understand completely," I said. "It's short notice, and besides… I know I have your support."

Heard him clear his throat. "Well," he said, speaking a bit louder. "I'll try to make an early night of it so we can go for dinner."

"I'd like that," I said. Never had felt so motivated to pack for a flight.

**12.22 pm.** Weird to be packing to go home. All of my best dresses already there, so no need to worry about those. Well, except for the black one. Must bring that one back. And the black suede kitten heels, obviously.

**1.09 pm.** Now cannot remember if white silk blouse is here and at cleaners, or left in London. Think that will look nice on publicity crawl, whatever that will consist of.

**3.17 pm.** It looks so bare in here with only Mark's things. Irrationally feeling as if am being chucked and sent home, or am leaving him, neither of which are the case.

**3.19 pm.** Tee hee. Have hidden Mark's Valentine's present, an homage-to-vintage shaving kit set (brush, old-shaving cream, aftershave and cologne) with a scent that is bloody sexy. Note inside offers to help with a shave. Will leave a card for him to open on Saturday and include hints to find it.

**3.32 pm.** Miracle or similar that am already packed. Mark likely to not be home for at least an hour, probably 2. Will get one last good dip in hot tub, a touch of colour on cheeks. Will NOT fall asleep or similar and get sunburnt.

**4.08 pm.** Triumphant. Nice relaxing soak _and_ stayed awake entire time. Did not need to have bright red face for career-highlight-like award. Quick shower then wash & dry hair and makeup for dinner out. (Shit. Must pack hair dryer.)

**4.22 pm.** Have chosen pretty but not-too-formal dress for tonight as am sure will not be takeaway Chinese or pizza delivery. Though come to think of it, may want to bring this dress too.

**4.35 pm.** No. Must draw the line. Wardrobe already packed is fine. Just fine.

**4.37 pm.** Though still can't remember about white silk blouse. Would be nice with the dark green skirt.

Oh! Just heard car in drive.

**5.07 pm.** Oh my God.

Mark turned up with giant wrapped box under arm and brave look on face, if a little sheepish. Bent to kiss me hello, then handed box to me. "This is for you."

Took it as did not want to seem ungrateful, though was v. confused. "What's this?"

"Did leave early, asked Juliza to help me with a little something," he said in v. mysterious tone. "Go ahead and open it."

Did as directed (setting box down on table in foyer), slipped lid from box, and gasped. Was gorgeous sapphire blue dress in silk or similar. V. dazzling, and, judging from name on box, v. expensive.

"That's for your big day," he said, then amended, "for getting your award."

"It's not my award, it's for…" _The show._ I trailed off. Knew he meant that anyway, but couldn't stop staring at dress. Was just too perfect. "I love it. Thank you." Set dress back in box, then went over to give him massively tight hug. "Going to miss you terribly when I'm gone," I said.

"I'll miss you too," he said. Felt his broad, reassuring hands against my back, and thought that I might just burst out with tears. "Since I won't be seeing you on the day…" He nuzzled against my hairline. "You look gorgeous," he murmured, kissing just near my ear, then sighed a little in what is best described in a regretful way. "Booked us a table at seven, but with traffic… we ought to go."

Have come upstairs to hang up amazing, glamorous-in-manner-of-screen-goddess dress, and trying to think where in luggage it can fit. Will powder nose once again. Looking forward to post-prandial snogging.

**11.07 pm.** Bloody good night, dinner v. g., champagne, but have to go, as Mark is nibbling my—at me.

**Thurs, 12 Feb**

_9st ½ (consider it storage for long haul flight), cigarettes 1 (but have patch on for flight), alcohol units 4 (long haul flight), number of hours of sleep prior to long haul flight 4 (approx.)._

**3.27 am.** Oh fuck, forgot would have to get up this early for flight.

**4.25 am.** Mark is darling, is miracle worker, as he has managed to get gorgeous dress carefully packed into suitcase. As I dressed (comfy clothes) he made some coffee and got an éclair for me (while somehow getting himself dressed, too). Had forgotten to arrange taxi in excitement of it all, but Mark offered to drive me to airport, despite having to work today.

**5.55 am.** On plane, waiting to take off. Benefit of Mark driving self to airport is that he really took charge. Ensured passport was in handy place (and was in fact packed, and not jumped out of carry-on bag sometime during night). Helped me get checked in. Walked with me to help find gate (possibly to ensure did not derail myself or get lost in airport terminal, but gesture appreciated all the same) and waited with me until boarding.

"Have a splendid time, darling," he said as boarding began and we rose from where we sat hand in hand in the waiting area. I turned to hug him and he surprised me by giving me full snog there in front of other bleary-eyed passengers. "Safe travels," he said. "I love you."

Told him that I loved him too—funny how reluctant had been at beginning of relationship to tell him so, and now it flowed as natural as breathing—then turned to get in line to board.

"Bridget," he said. Turned back. "Your handbag."

**6.15 am (LA time).** Now in air. Cinnamon Productions have plumped for first class, which is lovely. Hope never have to fly in steerage again.

Should try to go back to sleep, but not sleepy as yet. Too early for alcohol?

**7.05 am.** Ooh, bloody brilliant. Vodka orange juice. Healthy orange juice! And air hostesses so generous and attentive. Have had two so far.

**8.43 am.** Hostessesses skimps on vodka.

**3.12 pm.** Ooof. Have just woke from nap. Both famished and parched, and head pounding. Will see if can manage to get some food.

**3.23 pm.** Bliss. Air hostess has found lush green salad with chicken breast, loads of veg on top and amazing oriental-style vinaigrette. Have had Bloody Mary with it. Has alleviated headache.

Oof! Landing within half-hour.

**1.20 am, London time.** Have lost entire day to travel, landed in shockingly cold London just before midnight local time. Meanwhile was in mood for dinner. Shaz, looking a bit bleary, welcomed me with great tight hug.

"You look fucking great," she said. "LA agrees with you." She smirked. "Or maybe it's cohabitation with Mark?"

Felt self blush madly. "Shurrup," I said, slightly buzzed still on the Bloody Mary.

As she drove me home she said with conspiratorial air, "Have you spoken to Tom lately?"

"What?" I chirped. "Why? What is it?"

"Trouble in paradise," Shaz said morosely. "Apparently it's all off with Carl, and Tom isn't going back to San Francisco."

Oh no. They had seemed so happy. "What happened?" Told her about our stay with them in the Castro.

"Apparently he accidentally stepped on Mr Darcy," said Shaz, a giggle escaping before the dog's name, then went serious. "It was nothing serious but Carl evidently flipped out in overreaction. It led to a big row and then… Carl was saying that Tom might as well not come back from London."

Blimey.

"Funnily," said Shaz, "Tom seems to miss the dog more than he does Carl."

Asked Shazzer to make slight detour to call on my old friend, the late night curry stand, but once back to my flat she didn't come up and we said good night (she has to work in the morning). So now am in flat, all alone, slightly musty smelling from stagnant air over last month or so, eating my curry, sorting through mail (aha, the visa came!), and feeling a bit bereft.

Oh. Telephone!

**1.33 am.** Was Mark. Felt as if had not heard voice in eons. Tears welled in eyes as love swelled in heart.

"Just checking to see you made it back all right," he said softly.

"Sorry, I just came in, stopped for a curry," I said.

"How'd the flight go?"

"Slept most of it," I said, which was not an untruth.

"After how many cocktails?" he asked in teasing voice. Honestly.

"Just the one," I fibbed, then blurted, "and it had orange juice in, so it was practically breakfast."

He laughed heartily, and was about to object but then Mark said, "I needed that after today." Then he sighed. "I'll let you finish your curry. Need to find some dinner, myself."

"OK."

We said protracted goodnights and I-love-yous and then put down the phone. Felt his absence most acutely.

**Fri, 13 Feb**

_8st 12 (through magic of long haul flight), cigarettes 10 (v. bad, but have Silk Cut again), alcohol units 3 (only proper for Urban Family reunion), cigarettes purchased 800 (disgusting to think of them in this quantity)._

**10.30 am.** Going to pop in at work to say hi, then have made plans to meet girls (including Tom) for late lunch. But also must stop by the shops, get largest amount of Silk Cut can acquire at once to bring back to LA.

**12.20 pm.** Quick stop into office to see the Sit Up Britain gang. Feel like prodigal son or similar. Everyone seemed v. happy to see me, asked me how was LA, complimenting me on glowing complexion.

Awards show is next Friday night, but there are some interviews / press junkets in at least three cities, not to mention the industry parties. A mini-tour of the UK. Feel like rock star or similar. We leave for Edinburgh in the morning, Talitha and me.

**12.37 pm.** Have acquired four cartons of Silk Cut. Feel like tobacco smuggler or similar. No way they will fit in suitcase, unless they are out of box layered between clothes. But no, then all clothes will smell like tobacco.

I know! Will post them to LA house. Have perfect box in bedroom.

**2.05 pm.** Have got box off in post addressed to Mark. Had to fib a bit and say was sending video tapes, though they seemed a bit sceptical. Oh well. Sure it will be fine. Will tell him to expect it. Now off to Café Rouge for lunch.

**6.11 pm.** Ooh, too much wine but bloody good afternoon. Did not realise how much had missed our summits. (Not that am in need of relationship counselling.)

Much time was spent dissecting Tom's situation, and deciding ultimately that Carl was just-for-now boy. "But," said Shaz, pointing cigarette-laden fingers in his direction, "this does not mean you should start up with Jerome again."

"No," Tom said dramatically. "That is a closed chapter in my life. I am ready for someone new. Someone who's not an utterly narcissistic fuckwit."

Next we moved to Jude, who is frustrated, as ever, by Vile Richard. Before they got married, he'd promised to purge his personal library of the vile tome _How to Date Young Women: A Guide For Men Over Thirty-Five_. Unsurprisingly, he had not kept this promise.

"I found it in the drawer of his bedside table, pushed all the way to the back," she railed. "Obviously he didn't want me to know he'd kept it. Is it just nostalgia, or is he still trying it out?"

"What were you doing looking though his drawer?" asked Tom, not helpfully.

"He's not trustworthy, is he?" she bristled in return.

"In this case," ruled Shaz, "the ends justified the means."

"What am I going to do about this?" Jude wailed. "Why can't he commit to his own wife?"

"Because he's a fuckwit!" I said, which was also not helpful, but had had wine.

"I think," said Shaz in her best channelling-Satan voice, "that you should just pitch it. What is he going to do, confront you about it? _He promised to pitch it before your wedding._"

Jude grinned, then we discussed performing pagan ritual involving burning the pages.

Attention went to Shaz, who was uncharacteristically silent about how things were with Simon. With more wine, though, she admitted that Simon wanted to take a break and she realised she'd felt the same. "We hadn't actually had a shag since New Years," she admitted. "Can't be angry though. Just grumpy and sexually frustrated." She pouted.

"But you told me that—"

"I lied, okay?" she said sombrely, deflating as she exhaled. "Hard to admit that everything's gone to shite to _you_, what with Mr Perfect Pants and all."

Stunned. Gave her big hug and told her I was sorry. Weird to be in position with only functional relationship in group of friends (well, at least friends that are present; will see Magda after returning from Edinburgh).

Then found (to my surprise and horror) the following words falling out of mouth, utter fabrication that they were: "It's not all sunshine and rainbows in LA, you know. We're constantly bickering about my smoking."

"I thought he said you could smoke in the house!" said Shaz shrilly.

"I know! I thought so too!"

Felt terrible for besmirching poor Mark's good name, but at least the mention of imperfection had helped cheer her a bit. (Mark is not perfect by any means, but the imperfections are well worth overlooking.)

**8.30 pm.** Popped out for more takeaway. Hardly seems worth it to go shopping when will be so in and out of London for next two weeks. Though probably should at least get some coffee and mini-pizzas.

**8.31 pm.** And wine.

And Milk Tray.

And chocolate croissants.

**8.57 pm.** Knackered. Think will go to bed.

**9.26 pm.** Just about to climb in when telephone rang. Was Mark, taking a break for lunch. Told him about day, about trip up to Edinburgh, lunch with the friends, etc.

"Had to tell a little white lie today," I confessed, because did not want white lie to come back and bite me in the arse in manner of French farce.

"Oh? What about?" he said.

When I told him he went silent. Thought maybe he was actually cross with me, so said in my own defence, "It was just to make Shazzer feel better. She didn't want to admit she was having problems with Simon because we… don't. You and me, I mean."

But then he began to chuckle. "We rather did get past the problems, didn't we?" he said tenderly. "There was a time you never would have told me that."

"Yeah," I said, chuckling a little in return.

So I told him to have a good day and he told me to sleep tight, and before we signed off with the usual I-love-yous again, we wished each other Happy Valentine's Day. Have dreamt all of life of having functional relationship with adult male without laundry list of flaws, yet the lack of dysfunction feels… strange. Oddly empty. Not that _want_ dysfunction, but definitely notice there's no second-guessing, no wondering what ulterior motive is, etc. No low-level stress about relationship status. Just have to get used to truly not sweating the small stuff.

**Sat, 14 Feb**

_8st 13 (How? Why? Have barely eaten), cigarettes 5 (rationing again), cigarettes purchased for immediate use 0 (poor), alcohol units 5 (when in Rome), negative thoughts re: Valentine's Day 0 (miraculous)._

**8.05 am, Valentine's Day.** Car is here to go to train station. Have packed and in doing so realised have only the American cigarettes with me.

**8.45 am.** Talitha in car. Not going to train station. Going to airport! Feels so decadent.

**Sat, 21 Feb**

_8st 9 (rock and roll lifestyle), cigarettes countless (v. bad, but covers entire week), alcohol units also countless (proper way to network), loving thoughts about Mark Darcy infinite (love him)._

**1.05 pm.** Ugh. Have just woken up with the vilest of acidic hangovers. Week has been so non-stop, feel as if have not had time to blink.

Flight to Edinburgh was amazing. Barely an hour and they served cocktails, so we were half-pissed before we even landed. Got to hotel and shocked to find that waiting in hotel room for night was single red rose in vase and envelope with my name on. Card read: _Wish we were together today. Thinking of you. M._

Touched beyond belief, though baffled. How did Mark know where would be? Did not even know myself where would be.

However, once checked in were whisked off to television station where we were run through makeup and hair (glad had worn something nice) to tape segment for broadcast, then lunch with journalist for interview which was v. g. (more cocktails) which ran into dinner / party thing, with yet more cocktails.

Woke up in a haze on Sunday in time to go to airport (or so thought at the time). Misunderstanding about trip resulted in ending up in Glasgow (by car) with distinct lack of extra clothing. "No worries," said Talitha with wave of hand. "We've got time to shop."

Got to the new hotel and to my astonishment found anther single red rose with card, again from Mark: Hope things are going well. _Have a lovely time in Glasgow, and will see you soon enough. xx_

Since was just before lunch and did not have any appointment until dinner (time for shopping before, as per Talitha), immediately rang Mark.

When he picked up, could only blurt out to him in sombre tone, "How did you know?"

"What?" he said blearily. Only realised in that moment that it was four in morning; was too tired even to say "Pardon" a la Mum.

"Sorry," I said. "The _roses_. Thank you! They're lovely! But how on earth did you know where I was going to be?"

I heard him laugh softly. "After you told me about the trip, I had to do a little shuffling of my Valentine's plans. I rang up Patchouli and got your itinerary."

Seemed so obvious now he'd said it. "Oh," I said. "Well, thank you again. It's such a lovely surprise." After a moment I said, "Sorry to have woken you. Go on back to sleep. Love you."

"Love you too, darling," he said, and with that he put down the phone.

A few minutes later, as Talitha and I were about to leave, phone started to ring. Saw that it was Mark, so answered it right away.

"Everything okay?" I said.

"Of course, I just felt bad."

"Why? For what?"

"I forgot to thank you for your lovely card and gift. How rude of me." he said groggily. Hardly unexpected given it was still quite early, practically middle of night. "The shaving set is marvellous. I look forward to… having you back here."

Pretty sure was referring to my note in card about helping in shaving. "Me too," I said. Suddenly missed him v. much.

"Who's that?" Talitha.

Waved my hand. Would explain in a moment.

"Oh, sorry, are you with someone?" Mark asked.

"My cohort Talitha from work," I said. "Go on back to sleep. Talk to you soon."

When I put away my mobile, Talitha was looking at me with knit brows. "Was that the boyfriend?"

Involuntarily a smile spread across my face. "Yes. Mark."

"Is he still in LA?" she asked. "Jesus, it's early there."

"I know, but without thinking of the time difference I called to thank him for the roses in Edinburgh and here."

"There was another here?"

"Yes!"

Went off then for our lunch and shopping, chatting amicably throughout and generally having a boozy blast. Before we knew it had picked up something for the evening and for the next day (plane to Dublin). Only hoped it would fit it all in my bag (it did).

So after Dublin we went to Belfast, before flying back to London on the 19th. Truly whirlwind—and roses at those hotels too. Darling man.

For the whole of our travels, Talitha was practically joined to hip. Became quite chummy out of necessity, though is not to say did not enjoy it. Quite the opposite. Found out a bit more about her personal life, and was startled to learn she has two children, one of whom already out of uni. Also is in middle of divorce process from husband #2. Didn't realise she was even married, let alone twice with adult children.

"Third time will be the charm, _if_ I decide to go for it again," she said, playing it off as unaffected, but could tell it really sort of bothered her from look on her face in passing. But the experience has left her with some hilarious horror stories, though clearly something is lost in the retelling, as Mark did not find them nearly as funny.

The touring was great fun, though started to feel like parrot repeating same information again and again, and by the end of the run, our pat answers were quite polished.

Friday the 20th was the award ceremony itself. While somewhere in Ireland, had rung up Tom and asked him did he want to come with, to which of course he joyously agreed. Dress was as marvellous as expected. Think that Jude actually gasped when saw it, but not sure if she gasped at how lovely it was, or that she recognised the designer. She and Shaz came by flat to help with hair and makeup and it was like old times again, with pre-award anti-jitters wine and all. Tom came by about an hour before the car was to pick us up, and he looked magnificent, with hair freshly cut, cheeks as smooth as baby's bottom (not that know how smooth baby's bottom actually is).

Tom was fantastic escort, though could tell he was also on the prowl for a post-Carl fling. Do not believe have ever faced the paparazzi before. Terrifying experience, with all flashes going off in face.

Shock of night, though, was Talitha's date: Daniel Cleaver. Did not realise they knew each other. Surprise must have shown on face, as Talitha said, "Oh, do you know each other?"

Diplomatically, I said, "He was my boss at my previous job."

Daniel smiled, then started to chuckle. Then he said in confidential tone, "I distinctly remember sleeping together somewhere along the line."

"Oh, well, one more thing we have in common," she said, giggling a bit.

Could only wonder who Daniel has _not_ slept with in this city.

Proud of self for not being too pissed up at the podium in accepting award, and finding some words to express gratitude for recognition as well as not forgetting to thank Mark for his support (who knows, with miracle of internet, he might see it).

So tomorrow finds us popping up to Manchester for the afternoon, then over to Liverpool in the evening. Down from there to Birmingham on Monday, then over to Cardiff on Tuesday, before going back to London on Wednesday, and then back to LA on Thursday, the 26th. Blimey. Hope can sleep entire way back across Atlantic / North America.

Ooh. Going for tea at Magda and Jeremy's. Can hardly believe am saying this, but can't wait to see the children.

**9.07 pm.** Shattered and pounding head, though v. g. day with Magda and the kids (Jeremy went to his office to work between meals). Ended up staying for dinner, too, playing with the children in between, subjecting self to poking and prodding as a doctor's patient and introduction into the world of something called the Sylvanian Families by Constance.

Ever so nice to see Magda and talk. Confided that things have been v. g. lately with Jeremy, which was happy to hear. Image of them dancing at Jude's wedding still sticks with me.

"And how are things with you and Mark, out there in LA?"

Think her question was sincere, and not fishing for vicarious thrills. At least, do so dearly hope. Told her things were good, we're not making each other mad. "He even took me driving," I said. "I mean, let me drive the car. And didn't even flinch or anything when I did the corner too fast."

"That's a really good sign, Bridget," she said, sipping her tea. "_Really_ good. It's like a trial marriage without the paperwork."

Blinked and stared down to my own cup. Hadn't really thought of it that way. Surely Mark had not either. Cannot help but dismiss the thought, though. We are living in the moment, glad for the reconciliation, happy to be together. Not thinking long term. Was about to say to when—

"Mummeeee!" This from Harry, who stood there holding a drawing he'd done with the crayons. We fawned over it, and then Jeremy returned from his office and the subject changed back, oddly enough, to the case Mark's working on. Seems he is acting as UK contact, which didn't know. Had weird expression on face, almost smug. Guess case is going well, which am happy to hear.

Gave the children big hugs, especially Constance (is goddaughter, after all), then one for Magda and Jeremy each, telling them how good it had been to spend the day with them all. Was no exaggeration.

**11.05 pm.** Have just had call from Mark. Expecting that he wanted to ask all about night at award show last night, was v. surprised to instead be greeted with cranky, "If you're going to post contraband to me, you probably should let me know in advance."

Bugger. Realised had never let him know about cigarettes, which arrived today in the post at the house in LA. "Sorry, I really meant to," I said in most grovelling voice.

Went on to explain that if they'd been discovered it could have got us in trouble for not paying state tax, blah blah blah.

"But they weren't," I pointed out.

"Still," he said, which meant he knew there was no point to being angry, but couldn't help being so anyway. "Four cartons. That's an awful lot of cigarettes, Bridget."

"It's got to last me four more months."

"Hm," he said. Then he added, "Eight-hundred cigarettes, though. I thought you had 'practically given up'."

Said nothing.

"I did the maths," he said in stern, lecture-y tone. "Works out to about six a day."

"That's not so bad," I said brightly.

"It's pretty bad for someone who claims to have practically given up," he said in same lecture-y tone. Thought for a horrible moment he might tell me not to bother coming back to LA, but then I heard him start to chuckle. "Try not to smoke quite so many a day, all right? Anyway. How did it go last night?"

Told him all about it—Tom, cocktails, Talitha, networking (horrible, vile party concept 'mingling' taking new form), even Daniel's presence, which went totally unremarked upon, v. g.—until was overtaken by yawn.

"Sorry, darling," he said. "It must be late there."

Knew he knew precisely what time it was here—is like he has multiple clocks in head—and was just winding down the call. Didn't want to hang up, though knew I must get to sleep, as am taking train up to visit Mum and Dad on day off, even though would much prefer to keep head under duvet and/or sleep all day.

"I know," I said pitifully.

"Looking forward to you being back," he said encouragingly. "Go on, now, and have a nice sleep. We'll talk soon."

Now am left to the silence of my flat. Miss Mark terribly. And on a related note, feeling v. much in need of a shag.

**Sun, 22 Feb**

_8st 11 (blame the raspberry pavlova), cigarettes 4 (cutting back), alcohol units 2 (not v .g. to get too pissed at parents'), minutes spent missing Mark 1,440._

**12.10 pm.** Grafton Underwood. Am here and already being pressed to eat my weight in Sunday lunch. Roast beef this week, and new potatoes. Some things, like Sunday lunch at my parents', can always be counted on.

Dad greeted me at door with kiss to cheek, telling me how happy I seemed. "If a little tired," he said gently—the sort of thing that, if said by anyone else, would infuriate—so I explained that what I'd been doing over the last week. Mum was cheery and attentive, taking my coat to hang up. Guess not seeing only daughter for over a month makes heart grow fonder, though do think finally landing a man (ugh, as if fish or similar) she personally selected doesn't hurt. No more needling me to find a boyfriend.

"And Mark didn't come?" she asked.

"No, Mum, he couldn't," I said. "Big case, very busy. He very much wanted to, though."

"You can trust him out there, on his own?"

Split-second rogue traitor thought of Mark surrounded by all those beautiful Rebecca-clone-like Hollywood women before tamping down said thought and replying, "Of course I can, Mum. Utterly and completely."

She gave me look could not quite determine, then carried on serving up a portion of raspberry pavlova before she went off to make tea.

"Very glad for you, poppet," said my dad quietly. "He's a good man."

"Thanks, Dad," I said. "I think so, too."

When she brought the tea back, was suddenly reminded that she still had things to needle me about. "So, when will you be naming the day?"

More like blindsided than reminded, actually. Nearly coughed on the pavlova. "We haven't really discussed that, Mum. We've only been back together since—" Rolled back through mental calendar in head, back to that night in Mark's house, the glorious reunion in the kitchen… "—September."

Mum made a clucking sound with tongue. "Honestly don't know what you're waiting for," she said, then amended, "what _he's_ waiting for."

"Mum, he's been married before," I said, as if she didn't know, which she obviously does. "He's not likely to rush into it again, even if it is me."

"So where are you off to next?" Dad asked, and I gabbled the whole itinerary off to him, secretly—or maybe, not so secretly—grateful for the change of subject. First Magda, now my mum. Neither should surprise me, though. Not really.

**8.09 pm.** Back home from parents. Train delays, stuck with a dinner of British Rail sandwich passed over by all other passengers. Picked up dinner from a chippy on the way home, which have eaten way too quickly and now feel am going to be sick.

Talitha will be here in about 12 hours for our drive north then whirlwind tour, so should pack my bag for the trip, then go to bed at ridiculously early time.

**Thurs, 26 Feb**

_8st 11 (missed meals negated by cocktails), cigarettes 0 (back to patch), alcohol units 3 (flying again), shags 3 (at least)._

**9.07 am (London time).** Have been in the air about an hour now after whirlwind tour of UK for Sit Up Britain with Talitha. Were like Patsy and Edina, only perhaps with slightly less drinking (maybe). Four cities in two days before back to London. Returning to LA will feel am going on holiday. Which, in a sense, will be. Much less stressful.

Ooh. Feels as if is okay to have vodka orange now, to help relax self for remainder of flight. Have brought _The Famished Road_ paperback that was Christmas present from Jamie (destined to be haunted by it until finished), so might as well give it another shot during flight (foolishly as book, I swear, weighs more than laptop).

**12.13 pm.** Have just woke hearing food trolleys making noise. Book had put self to sleep. Resolve to 'forget' book in seat back as is hopeless.

**2.06 pm.** Lunch better than have had in Angus Steak House. Feeling v. happily full such that do not even care about calorie count. Makes up for the water biscuits eaten between appearances over past few days. Was steak, potatoes, brown sauce, green beans—serious déjà vu, perhaps are preparing travellers for US culture shock?—and with it had another cocktail, this time, Bloody Mary. Should not arrive completely shit-faced, though, for seeing Mark for first time in two weeks.

Four more hours left to flight. Regret not picking up magazines at Heathrow. Could try book again but would just fall asleep. Then again, maybe should have nap, as when plane lands in LA, it will be ten in morning. Will always leave me in awe, to regain entire day, or lose entire day, depending on whether flying east or west. Is closest thing to time-travel in existence.

**5.45 pm.** Nap was success. Woke just in time to have light snack. Eschewed cocktail and instead had water, so as to combat both jet lag and hangover. Should be landing soon. Cannot wait.

**10.21 am (LA time).** Grr. Helpful air stewardess chased after me on jet-way to return the book left in seat back.

**10.22 am.** Fuck. Realised have left visa on table by lamp… in flat in London.

**2.10 pm.** Mmm.

Deplaned to find Mark standing there, despite busy schedule and busy day, waiting for me at gate with flowers and chocolates. Enveloped self in arms and—despite having just left London—felt like I had come home. Tears sprung to eyes as I clung tightly to him.

Then he kissed me and world around me disappeared.

"Welcome back, darling," he said close to my ear, snapping me back to the present.

"So glad to be back with you," I said. Could have been in outer Mongolia and would have said exact same thing.

Thought we might go have lunch (which for me was dinner) but instead, he took me back to the house to find he had made us a lovely lunch of sandwiches, which we ate in bed after reconciliatory shag (_hurrah!)_. Unfortunately, he had to go to office for rest of afternoon, as they had v. important case status meeting, but would try to get home early.

"Take it easy, relax," he said, smoothing down my hair, caressing my face. "Have a go in the hot tub to work the knots out from flying. And don't worry about dinner. We'll go out."

Have returned to utter paradise.

**10.05 pm.** After doing what Mark suggested—relaxing, soaking in hot tub, not worrying about things like forgotten visa—was refreshed at his return. Had lovely evening out to dinner at nice (but thankfully not too posh) Chinese restaurant. Oddly, Mark seemed a bit on edge. When asked him about it, he dismissed it, said work was just a bit stressful. Glad to be back to give him neck rubs when needed.

Looks like he could use neck rubs right now, actually. Maybe cuddles. Maybe more.

**Mon, 2 Mar**

_9st 1 (still recuperating by impersonating sloth), cigarettes 5 (under quota), alcohol units 4 (reasonable given circumstances), baffling days in a row with Mark 2, baffling days explained 2._

**8.02 am.** Just saw Mark off to the office after a nice weekend, though a somewhat odd one. Mark had to work on Friday so I did too, or at least tried. Apparently, travelling east is supposed to be worse for jetlag, but felt much worse coming back to LA. Fortunately had nothing pressing to attend to, just reminder to send ideas in time for morning meeting.

Odd mood of Mark's really started Friday night. Smoked the last of what bought in London, so asked for the Silk Cut had mailed self. Mark advised he was going to hold on to them, that he would help me to quit by giving me only 6 per day.

"How many have you had today?" he asked.

"Three," I said without thinking. He then handed over three more. Wish had thought to say one.

Saturday was nice, starting with a long lie-in. Indulged in using shaving kit on Mark as had previously promised. Thank goodness was safety razor as was better able to not fear taking off his nose, ear, etc. Would not have been v. sexy. Afterwards, spent time by and in pool—him and me, respectively—which should have been wholly relaxing, but Mark seemed very twitchy.

Mark then suddenly hopped up and disappeared into the house. Thought about following, but then a few minutes later he reappeared and announced he had to run out for something. V. adamant he go alone. About ten minutes after he'd gone out, the telephone rang, which picked up in case was Mark.

"Hello," came deep, smooth, Latin voice. Antonio—er, Eduardo—from Mark's work. "Is Mark at home? I've been calling the mobile number but he doesn't pick it up."

"He might still be driving," I said, though where did he go that he'd still be driving ten minutes later? Poss. bad traffic? "Is there a message I can give him?"

"No, I already left a message with the mobile," he said. "Oh, and you were in London, I hear? How did it go?"

"Quite well," I said, then gave v. brief explanation of why was there, since was not sure how much Mark would have told him.

Eduardo chuckled. "Oh, I am glad," he said. "Gave Mark a hard time about his beautiful girlfriend being in London all on her own, glamorous parties, celebrities everywhere…"

Despite lovely compliment, felt heart sink. Could this be why Mark was so unsettled? Hope he did not take any of the teasing to heart. Offered a light laugh and said, "He has nothing to worry about."

"I'm convinced this is true," he said. "Oh well, take care and see you soon, I'm sure."

When Mark returned three hours later bearing small bag of groceries, let him know that Eduardo had rung up. "Said he'd try your mobile again, but in case he didn't reach you…."

He didn't say anything, just stood there not blinking, then said what seemed to be an affected composed manner, "Oh, I wonder what he wants. Best ring him back."

After he returned the call (in private) we fixed then ate dinner. Things were mostly quiet. Started to feel paranoid that somehow had said or done something wrong—or worse yet, that had he had decided after all that he liked it better with a quiet house and me in London—but then after we tidied up, got the same soft smile and lovely kiss as usual.

"Sorry," he murmured to me. "My mind has been elsewhere today, and that's not fair to you." Then made it up to me upstairs.

However, yesterday was nearly identical, down to the nervous-as-cat demeanour, the phone call from Eduardo (as would later learn), and the reassuring change of mood at the end of the day.

V. confusing.

**8.30 am.** Oh fuck. _Oh fuck_. Forgot to send ideas for morning meeting. Which was 8 hours ago.

**8.40 am.** Lucky break. Checked email to find that because of flu or similar, meeting put off 'til tomorrow. Is big chance to not fuck it up.

**9.10 am.** Tra la! Have sent list of ten suggestions for segments. Never thought I was the type to work well under pressure—not that there is pressure anymore, since meeting was rescheduled—but items flowed incredibly quickly from brain once they started. Maybe ideas were having fight-or-flight adrenalin response. No matter. Can now set that aside and tackle other things. Like having a swim. V. nice day, even for here.

**12.05 pm.** Oof. Have just woken from nap on deck chair by pool. Fortunately was mostly in shade of terrace, but feet were sticking out into the sun and now tops of feet are bright red.

**12.07 pm.** And tender.

**12.15 pm.** Wonder if there is anything for sunburn in house? Surely is necessity to have on hand in LA.

**1.07 pm.** Have looked through en suite loo and downstairs loo as well, and no aloe. Have put cool flannel on but is not helping. Do not dare to drive as even jelly mules would be torture. Ooh, I know.

**1.28 pm.** Weird. Rang up Mark to ask if he could pick something to treat sunburn. Conversation went like this:

Me: Looked all over the house for something like aloe. You know, with the—

Mark (_sharply_): You looked all over?

Me: Yes.

Mark (_authoritatively_): What, exactly, constitutes 'all over'?

Me: Er… the loos?

(Honestly, where else would I look?)

Mark (_after a pause_): Oh. Oh. All right. Yes. Sorry. That seems reasonable. (_pause, shuffling of paper_) I'll pick something up for you.

Maybe should think about planning outing on the weekend to Santa Monica. Work is getting to him in v. bad way, and is only Monday.

**1.37 pm.** Another quick check on the email and found that was asked to look through script for another of Grant's shows and do a little polishing. "Hate to dump this on you," Grant wrote, "but with this flu thing… I need another pair of eyes. Do you mind? Ta."

Of course do not mind. Bangor degree shall not go to waist. Er. Waste.

**5.45 pm.** In process of emailing Grant's script back, have just had life startled from self due to crashing sound from front of house. Startled doubly by the thought that four hours had passed without noticing.

Should probably see what the fuss is.

**5.52 pm.** Have to sit down. Cannot breathe.

**6.45 pm.** Was Mark, thank goodness, and not stranger burgling the place, coming in with carrier bag and giant bouquet of flowers. Stood and stared, though, at cross look on Mark's face, as realised that handbag had left on table (one that he had asked me to put away) was on the floor, contents strewn.

"Bridget," he said sternly.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I gabbled on, bending to scoop contents back into handbag. "And here you are bringing home things for supper, and flowers for no reason and everything—"

"Not for no reason," he said in very serious tone. Looked up towards him, then scrambled to feet. "Had hoped to come in, set up everything on the table without you knowing…"

Without me knowing what? Was starting to panic a bit. Fears that had formed over the weekend (of Mark wishing I'd not come back from London) overtook me in irrational moment. Had I become too much of a distraction and he was now prepared to soften me up to send me back? "What's this all about?" I asked, then words just started coming out of mouth: "Are you sending me back? I'm sorry if I did something to fuck things up. I promise not to do it again! I love it here with you and I don't want to be sent away like a scolded—"

"Will you _please_—" he interrupted sharply, then stopped, then started again. "I don't know what would ever make you think I'd want to send you away, Bridget, especially not when I'm about to—" Exhaled roughly, then said in terse and frustrated voice, "Will you marry me?"

Took me a moment to realise exactly what he had said, which was so at odds with how he had said it. Was eerily similar to the brusque manner in which, at his parents' Ruby Wedding, he had asked me to dinner for first time. Could only stupidly say, "What?"

He thrust the flowers at me, then dug into the carrier bag, pulling out some books. "To support my petition. Oh," he said, then set down the books and dashed up the stairs.

With flowers still in hand, moved forward to closer examine the books he'd drawn out. _Why Marriages Succeed or Fail_. _Keeping the Love You Find_. _Passionate Marriage_. Bloody self-help books.

Mark appeared presently with something in his hand. Began to tremble at the sight of him, as everything came together in head. "This isn't quite as I intended," he said, "but I meant what I asked." He opened the box. Inside was a ring. "I know you're not crazy about marriage."

"What?" I asked again in the same stupid tone.

"However," he went on as if had not spoken, "being without you for those two weeks made me throw caution to the wind. Take a chance on asking. I'm prepared to argue my case at length, if needed—"

"Not crazy about marriage?" I interrupted. "_Me?_"

"Well, yes," he said, sounding a bit perplexed. "Between your Smug Married comments, Jude and Richard's troubles, your friend Talitha's second divorce horror stories…"

Oh God. Brought hand to mouth, felt tears spring to eyes. Had I really been sabotaging myself in this way?

"What do you say, Bridget?" he asked, his brown eyes wide and guileless.

Impossible to resist, and did not want to. Without conscious thought had arms around his neck, kissing him, murmuring "Yes" again and again.

His arms came up and around me, holding me tightly.

"I thought _you_ were the one who wasn't crazy about marriage," I said.

"Reasonable, but not true," he said definitively. "Having done it so terribly wrong once before, I knew _this_ was right."

Then all became clear what the weirdness over the weekend and today had really been about. He had been nervous and fidgety, wanting to ask. Asked him if this was so, and he drew back to look at me.

"Yes," he said. "I was trying to find the right moment, and it wasn't coming, and then I'd make up my mind to just try again tomorrow." He let go of me then, with trembling hands, pulled the ring from its box in order to put it on my ring finger. It's a bit too large a fit, but it's gorgeous. There's a central diamond, round and sparkly, with eight round sapphires encircling it, almost like a flower. Thought it was white gold, but Mark advised it is platinum.

"We can have it sized," he said. "I thought about something a little more traditional, but I saw the sapphire and thought of your eyes…"

Felt tears welling again. Such a romantic in his way.

"I also thought," he said, the edge of a tease in his voice, "that if it were a bit larger than a solitaire, you would be less apt to lose it. Oh fuck."

"What?" I said in a panicked tone at his non sequitur, as if he might tear ring off of finger and take it back in moment of hideous regret.

"Your feet," he said, having noticed their bright-lobster-redness for first time. "I forgot your aloe."

**9.31 pm.** Mark popped out for the sunburn gel (with lidocaine, balm of gods) and picked up pizza for dinner, because neither of us wanted to cook after the excitement of it all or to go out to restaurant. Had pizza and champagne (because of course there must be champagne) out on back terrace overlooking twinkly city at night. Was heavenly.

As we ate, though, Mark had additional confessions to make. "Jeremy kept prodding me to make an honest woman of you," he said. "Told him I intended to as soon as I could when you were back." Explained Jeremy's smugness at dinner in London—he'd already known! "And I also told Eduardo of my intentions… and he kept checking in on the weekend so they would know when to start to plan a little party for us."

"So lovely of them," I said. How foolishly, stupidly wrong I had been about the whole situation.

And now Mark is come to bed after taking care of some quick phone calls. Need to properly celebrate engagement, after all. Cannot wait to ring friends to tell them good news. And Mum and Dad too, of course.

**10.37 pm.** After exhaustion of the stress of asking and then vigorous engagement-celebratory shag, Mark has fallen off to sleep. Totally understandable. Cannot quieten own brain, though. Keep looking at lovely ring. Even in the dull dimness in here, it seems to pick up all the light it can find and make it shimmer and come alive.

Keep looking at Mark too, and reflect on how he made own heart shimmer and come alive with the light of love.

Pfft. Am clearly shag drunk. Time to go to sleep, or try to, anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Bridget Jones: A Brand New Start**

By S. Faith, © 2014-2015

Words: 50,000 in 6 chapters  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

**Sat, 14 Mar**

_8st 10 (running on adrenalin), cigarettes 7 (special occasion, surely is ok), alcohol units 6 (celebratory air), number of glances per hour to ring 20 (approx.)._

**9.12 am.** Past two weeks have been positively insane, calling every friend can think of to give them the news. Perhaps that is exaggeration, but have had nothing but lovely congratulations. (Jude tells me that jellyfisher Rebecca nearly had meltdown in 192. HA. HA.)

Mum was appropriately thrilled and smug about having known all along things were meant to be. Inclined to allow her the victory. Dad tried hard not to weep while on phone but could tell he was happy. So glad sex-god is also ideal potential son-in-law, but Mark is the kindest man have ever known save for Dad.

Malcolm and Elaine were also v. lovely. V. grateful they like me as well as they do. Am not quite like other girls of their social strata (inasmuch as that matters anymore), but they know do not just want to get feet under table, as almost happened in past (whatever became of Natasha, anyway? Ah, do not _really_ care).

Today is party that law firm is throwing for engagement. More like dinner party with his co-workers and their spouses or partners or whatever, as we do not really know anyone else here, but will be v. nice and festive.

**10.30 am.** Not looking forward to all of the questions, though. Already starting: Have you picked a date yet? What sort of dress have you got in mind? Where will reception be? Ugh. Have half a mind to pack Mark into car and drive to Las Vegas to get married in an all-night chapel like in the pictures, except do not want to be married by Elvis Presley or similar. Not to mention Mum would brutally murder self.

**10.34 am.** Almost two weeks after Mark proposed, and still find self caught by surprise by glittering ring on finger. Is even more amazing in the sunlight. Expect at times to wake up to find has all been some kind of fever-dream, that am still stuck in prison in Thailand. V. grateful for how everything turned out.

Ooh! Should get dressed. Mark decided last night we should go out for lunch. Offered to take me shopping for dress, too. "Not for wedding," he amended with a grin. "For the party." Told him, though, that had decided to wear the glamorous but understated dress he'd bought self for Valentine's.

"It's a dress that should be worn more than once," I declared. "Not to mention that you have never even seen me in it."

His expression went all soft and tender. Took me in arms and murmured, "How I hope you never stop surprising me."

Think he meant he expected me to want a new dress, will take it as compliment all the same.

**3.48 pm.** Back at house, now, to get changed for party. Is being held at Eduardo's house, which is not too far from here. Am told is big house, bigger than even this one, and no wife / girlfriend or children. Surprising, really, as he is v. handsome. Perhaps he is fuckwit in manner of Daniel.

(Hm. Do not _think_ he is gay, but one never knows.)

**3.52 pm.** Oh my God. Have re-read above and realise am Smug Married-ing Eduardo. Did not mean to do. Am genuinely surprised as he seems nice and is v. handsome. Should have partner.

**5.20 pm.** Just about to leave for party. Got dressed, did makeup and also pinned hair up. Wore the lovely heels and then went to model for Mark. Do not think he blinked for several seconds, then said, "Very nice." Had hoped for bigger reaction, to be honest, but glad he likes it all the same.

**11.51 pm.** Back from party. Was fantastic time.

Shortly after we left house, during drive to party, noticed Mark was still v. quiet and focused, even more so than usual. Placed my hand on his knee, asked, "Are you all right?"

"For God's sake, Bridget," he snapped, "don't do that."

Confused. Thought perhaps he did not actually like dress, after all, or perhaps was bulging in weird way.

"Sorry," I murmured.

After a moment, heard him exhale roughly. Spoke again and voice was much softer. "It's just that… I can't really do anything about it until after the party, can I?"

It finally struck me what he meant. He liked the dress perhaps a little _too_ much. On one hand, felt quite pleased with self, but on other hand, do feel a bit sorry for putting him in, er, _tight spot_ for whole of night.

More on party later, as now we are home, certainly _can_ do something about it.

**Sun, 15 Mar**

_8st 11 (post-party weight gain let-down), cigarettes 4 (feeling acidic sickness even with cigs), alcohol units 1 (must compensate for party), number of times wished to throttle Mark Darcy for air of mystery 1000s._

**8.12 am.** Gah. Bloody sun being too bright and shining this morning.

**10.30 am.** Mark brought coffee and pastry upstairs. Looks a bit rough (Mark, not pastry), though probably due more to late night than drinking. He was driving, after all.

Party was fantastic. V. interesting, though. Have not spent a lot of time in law partners' collective company, but the dynamic between them is v. different compared to partners in chambers in England. Maybe is presence of surf and sand in such close proximity, but attitudes are much less uptight amongst these lawyers. Mark is most uptight of all, whereas he is usually least so amongst his English colleagues. Feel as if am a tighter mesh with these lawyers than Mark is.

Witnessed too the playful teasing. Is obvious they are v. fond of (and respect) Mark, but get the impression they think he is stiff and reserved in almost comical proportion. Mark is also v. fond of (and respects) them in same way. Think he thinks of himself, at times, as the only adult in the room, even though he is not the oldest by far. But not in resentful way. More of a paternal way.

Got my share of teasing too. Gave as good as got. Eduardo said to me with a wink, "I expect you will be a timid bride."

"Oh, _yes_," I retorted. "Obviously. I'm a shrinking flower, you know. Practically a _virgin_."

Had all had quite a bit of wine at that point, and at this declaration Mark said in exasperated tone, "Bridget!" This caused all present to erupt in laughter, even Mark.

"I'm sure you're waiting until after the church," said Eduardo, sarcastic tone obvious.

Ron sputtered a snort of disbelief. "Couldn't even wait 'til the suitcases were upstairs!"

Alcohol may be urine of Satan but is great social lubricant, to the extent not even Mark blushed at that reference to our first day there. (Occurs to me now that since other folks chuckled, Ron must have shared the story with others. Am mortified in light of day.)

Food was amazing. All jokingly referred to type of food as 'California cuisine', which seems to be fusion of many different cultures, such as Japanese and Mexican. Results surprising in v. g. way.

Was v. interesting to meet the partners of the lawyers (not law partners, obvs.). Soledad's husband Mario is a darling man. About the same age as she is—they apparently grew up in the same neighbourhood of Mexico City. Was not surprised that Ron's not married, though he does have a girlfriend, Rosie, v. cute with ginger hair and really very likeable. Introduction to her entailed hearing all about her nightmare experience at hairdresser two nights before, an experience with which could relate. Her hair looked decidedly better than own Mr Spock fringe, which has (thankfully) long since grown in again.

Had a moment of confusion and embarrassment when Juliza introduced self to Marisa. After all of the comments about picking up dinner for the two of them, or going away for a weekend, was expecting that Marisa was Juliza's girlfriend, after but one look at her, realised clearly she was 1.) a girl no more than twelve and 2.) the spitting image of Juliza, same long, dark, curly hair and everything. Felt my face go livid with my embarrassment. Must have been daughter, not girlfriend at all.

"It's really lovely to meet you," I said, reaching out my hand to shake hers. Marisa smiled and shook it, looking v. pleased.

"My mom told me all about you," Marisa said with a beaming smile. "That you live in London, and you're on TV and everything!"

"I'm not on TV," I said, "well, not anymore, anyway. But I do work for a television show. I come up with ideas for the show."

Was practically celebrity or similar with Marisa, who spoke in glowing tones to me. Complimented my dress, at which explained that Mark had bought it for self for Valentine's Day ("Oh, so _sweet_," Marisa said and Juliza explained she'd helped pick it out). We made tentative plans to go to the pictures or out for lunch on a weekend soon. Mark joined us at that point. Introduced him to Marisa, at which she complimented his taste re: the dress. He looked really surprised, and said "Thank you" to her.

Was the end of the evening that was most interesting. Party was winding down but we stayed behind to give proper thank-you to Eduardo. Was still feeling a bit squiffy and affectionately put arms around Mark's waist, giving him big hug, which he returned in full. As we broke apart saw Eduardo returning from being out of the room. Though Eduardo seemed at first glance to be fairly sober, was clear to me that he was not, and his expression spoke volumes of… well, not sure _what_ saw there. Wistfulness? Unhappiness? Longing? (Not for self, but for… something.) Before could think better of it, blurted out, "What's wrong?"

Think that if not for the drinks in him, he might have brushed it off with a confident laugh and said, "Nothing." Instead, he said "Nothing" in tremulous voice, and his eyes went over glossy.

Could not let it go. Swept away from Mark and went to Eduardo, grasping his sleeve. "That's not nothing," I said in v. sweet tone, meeting his gaze. "You can say, go on."

After a moment, he did. In a voice more vulnerable than had ever heard from this usually strong person, he said that early on, he'd had to choose between the woman he loved and his career. "Young and foolish, I chose career," he said. "I have regretted it ever since. Seeing the two of you reminds me of the happiness I threw away."

"Oh!" I said, filled with overwhelming sadness and pity. On impulse (possibly fuelled by residual alcohol in system), reached forward to give him a compassionate hug. "I'm so sorry!"

Heard a little chuckle as I pushed away. "Do not worry about me," he said with a kind expression, though misty eyes still. "I hope one day to make right my mistake and find someone who can love me."

"You _will_!" I said emphatically. "You can still make it right, can't you? Try again, call her—" Broke off. He had started to shake his head.

"She is married now," Eduardo said sorrowfully. "To a man who undoubtedly deserves her more than I."

"Don't stop looking for it, though," I said with equal emphasis. "Never know when you'll find it."

Mark added in uncharacteristically emotional voice, "Or even when _it_ will find _you_." Then Mark chuckled and broke the tension of the moment with, "We sound like a pair of agony aunts, don't we?"

Shortly thereafter, with my own eyes a bit teary, we left for the car, Mark's arm supportive around waist despite not being quite that pissed anymore. Didn't mind much, truthfully.

"You are lovely," said Mark quietly. "Drawing that story out of him, then reassuring him. That was very kind."

Tightened my arm around his waist. "You're lovely too," I said. "Heard what you said there, and I'm sure he did, too. You're like the walking testimonial to love. If even the stiffest shirt in the room can find it…" Trailed off as felt had gone too far, insulting my fiancé. (Still feels v. odd to say.)

He laughed lightly. "I'm very much aware that I'm the most reserved of the lot of them, darling," he said. "If I can serve as an example to never losing hope…" Then he pecked a kiss into my hair and said, releasing me so that he could open the door to the car, "You're very cute when you're squiffy."

With way head is still throbbing, suppose was more pissed than thought. Was worth it.

**12.45 pm**. Must have dozed off again, as Mark just returned, waking me as he sat heavily on the bed. To be honest, think he dropped down heavier than usual on purpose to be a bit of a (playful) git. "Time to rise and shine, sleepyhead," he said.

"Why?" I muttered, traumatised from the shock of waking. "Have we somewhere to go?"

"No," he said. "Not yet, anyway."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Nothing," he said. "Care to join me for lunch?"

"Mark, what do you mean?"

He only gave me a smug, satisfied look, then stood and left.

Bastard. He's going to force me to get out of bed when feel like gyroscope in head is off-kilter.

**5.45 pm.** Went down in pursuit of lunch and to find out why Mark was suddenly being so mysterious. What had happened this morning to affect such change? Tried every trick could think of to persuade him to tell me—yes, even that—but have had no luck.

**5.52 pm.** Oh! In wake of engagement excitement, nearly forgot is birthday next weekend. Perhaps mystery is related to birthday extravaganza!

**6.03 pm.** Damn. Tried to interrogate him further, but would only say, in perfect lawyerly fashion, that could not confirm nor deny any plans that may or may not be in motion. Frustrating bastard. Love him.

Oh! Have just been called back downstairs. Time to make dinner, after all.

**10.02 pm.** Startled to find Mark waiting with keys in hand in the foyer. "Shoes on," he said. "Got your handbag?"

Ooh! Must have been alluded-to surprise. "Where are we going?"

He said only again to get shoes on and come on.

Drove us to Santa Monica, where we had a wonderful candlelit dinner and walk on the beach. Still so hard to believe that is still only March!

On the way home, said to him, "Thank you for the wonderful surprise night out, though really, you didn't have to be quite so mysterious."

He chuckled. "Oh, darling," he said in almost patronising way that made me immediately suspicious.

"What?!"

As we came to a halt in the drive, he switched off the ignition and turned to me. "That wasn't the surprise," he said with a devilish grin.

Is lucky am too lustful to make him sleep on sofa.

**10.07 pm.** Must mean this really is birthday-related surprise. Surely does not mean to drive me mad until next weekend, does he?

**Tue, 17 Mar**

_8st 13 (How? Why?), cigarettes 8 (includes 2 hoarded from earlier in week), alcohol units 4 (insufficient), Cinderella moments 1._

**8.10 am.** Having seen off Mark, have got up and put on the telly for current events with coffee, and am discovering an odd thing: lots of green clothing, shouting, weird plastic leprechaun hats, sparkly clover deely-boppers protruding from head like antennae.

**9.00 am.** Ah. Is St Patrick's Day. Saw scenes from huge parade in New York City. Massively strange. Not even sure there are parades of this scale in actual Ireland.

**1.24 pm.** US seems to have unholy fascination with St Patrick's Day, which seems to focus mainly on drinking oneself insensible. Actually surprised London's singletons haven't more fully embraced this aspect of the saint's day.

**2.17 pm. **Just had call from Mark. Bizarre.

"Darling," he said. "What is your shoe size?"

"What?" I asked. "Why?"

"What is it?" he pressed.

Realised this must have been related to mystery yet to come, or possible Cinderella complex. "A size 5," I said matter-of-factly.

"Great. Thanks."

That was the extent of it.

**6.45 pm.** Mark arrived home. Knew that he knew would be expecting him to present pair of shoes to self, so looked up expectantly from my place on the sofa as he came into the room.

"Here you are, darling," he said with a grin, bearing a carrier bag. He knelt down before me, drew out a box, then opened it and pulled out—

"A trainer?" I asked, puzzled.

"Not quite," he said. "I'm assured these are among the most comfortable walking shoes around."

"Sensible," I muttered.

"Yes, very much. Here, let's try it on."

Was rather Cinderella-like, after all, in the sense that try as he might, shoe would not go on to foot. Said to him jokingly, "How do I know you're not just taking these around the whole of the city, trying to find someone to fit the shoes?"

To his credit, he chuckled, but continued to stare at the shoe, as if it would magically grow larger through brain waves. Then asked him to hand shoe to me. Indeed seemed v. small. Looked inside and found it was, indeed, labelled with size 5. Drew brows together. "I don't understand."

"Nor do I."

"Are we sure it's not a 2?" I asked, poking at the inside of the shoe again, turning the shoe 180 degrees.

"No," Mark said. "Not possible. According to the saleswoman, five is the smallest adult woman's shoe they have."

Seemed v. strange to me. Know a few adult women who had feet smaller than self. "What does the box say?"

"Size five." He dug into the bag for the box, examined it, scowled, then started to laugh. "Seems there's been an international mix-up." He turned the box around to show me what he'd obviously missed before. Size 5 in US equals size 2½ in UK. "I'll have to return these for a larger size. So sorry."

"What is this all about?"

"Your surprise," he said. "It will involve some walking, and I don't think you have anything suitable here with you."

A surprise involving walking? Not so sure about this.

**Thurs, 19 Mar**

_9st 1 (life v. unfair), cigarettes 4 (best behaviour), alcohol units 1 (saint), anticipation levels v large sum._

**7.19 pm.** Perfectly ordinary day in all but one respect. Returned from quick run to grocery store (will never get used to driving on wrong side of road) and as closed the door behind self, heard crashing sound from upstairs. In retrospect, probably foolish to go upstairs alone to investigate, but did so anyway, and found Mark trying to hastily clean up where he had knocked over a vase (thankfully empty and not broken). On the floor, a small suitcase that had disgorged contents, probably during course of crash.

"What are you doing?" I asked, possibly the most obvious thing that could be asked in the situation.

"Was just getting things ready for tomorrow."

Noticed then that the contents consisted of pants, socks and my bikini. _Bikini?_ "What's going on?"

"Nothing." Quickly he scooped up the contents back into the case, then looked at me plaintively. "Can't you let me surprise you with anything?"

"You have managed to do so once or twice," I said with a smile, waggling my wedding ring finger, thinking too of our first Christmas at Hintlesham. "I heard the crash and was worried… but don't say anything more. Believe it or not, I do actually like surprises."

Of course, this is not completely true; love surprises when they're not spoilt in advanced. Otherwise feel antsy until the reveal. But Mark looked so distraught at the thought of there being nothing left to surprise, so felt the need to make him feel better.

Feeling v. impatient to know what awaits birthday surprise. And excited. Mark hasn't yet disappointed.

**Fri, 20 Mar**

_9st (dropped in shock), cigarettes 2 (best behaviour), alcohol units 5 (poss. more), bliss levels off the chart._

**2.12 pm.** Was just working on reviewing another television script for Grant D Pike when heard someone come in. Went to investigate and found it was Mark, home v. early. Wore a great big grin on face.

"What?" I asked.

"Are you ready?" he said, playful and devilish at same time.

Hadn't expected anything until the next day, maybe that evening, so could only gawk in silence until brain rebooted. "What?"

"Don't say 'what,' darling," he teased. "As you well know, I've got your bags all set. Time for lunch, then the start of your birthday surprise."

After marking my spot (do not need to finish review until Weds) I went to brush hair, mascara on lashes, then we went out to lovely little bistro. Sitting in bright LA sun, drinking glass of wine at outdoor table, and feeling v. lucky and not at all freaking out that am entering late-thirties in less than twenty-four hours. Have finally attained cool, professional maturity have always dreamt of.

**3.57 pm.** We left bistro and immediately headed to freeway heading south. Ooh. Perhaps weekend on coast, hence need for bikini. Maybe Manhattan Beach? But then why the walking shoes? Suspense killing me.

**4.22 pm.** Oh my bloody God and fuck. Have just entered departures at the airport. Could be going anywhere!

**5.30 pm.** Sitting on airplane. Going to Las Vegas. LAS. VEGAS.

**5.45 pm.** Oh God. Reading in-flight magazine, article about Las Vegas quickie wedding chapels, reminding self that they exist. Suddenly wondering if steeped-in-English-tradition Mark would be so impetuous and disobedient to plan weekend trip to Las Vegas for chapel wedding that would irritate/anger/disappoint my parents and his. (Because only Mark could pull off impetuous planning.)

**10.52 pm.** City is amazing. Mark got a lovely suite in a hotel just off of the strip. View outside window is even more glittery and sparkly than LA, which seemed impossible. Amazing too is giant beam of light coming up off of glass pyramid of (am told) Luxor Hotel.

After landing at airport, came straight to suite to deposit things, then went to hotel's v. posh restaurant for dinner. Cocktails, dessert, then a walk hand in hand amongst the other tourists over to something called the Fremont Street Experience: arched canopies over the street (no vehicle traffic, just pedestrians), on which displays mind-blowing light shows. It's something so totally over-the-top outrageous, so very… Las Vegas. But it's beautiful and mesmerising and in its own way, romantic.

Am now exhausted, though suspect will have the energy to join Mark in the spa tub, especially as am feeling v. full of love (and lust) for him tonight.

**Sun, 22 Mar**

_8st 12 (despite gorging self on rich food), cigarettes 0 (cravings vanished amongst glamour and glitz), alcohol units 4 (delightful), wedding chapels countless._

**5.23 pm.** On plane, on way back to LA. Entire weekend absolutely perfect. A few moments of annoyance while at lunch (not at Mark, but at other patrons being loud and brayingly obnoxious) but otherwise no real complaints.

Birthday itself yesterday started with pastries and coffee in bed (after rather long lie-in, ahem), then dressed casually to do a bit of walking around the Strip, and to have lunch out. (The comfortable walking shoes did their job admirably.) Returned to hotel for a swim in the outdoor pool—a first ever in life, bikini in March outdoors in the sun—then back to suite to dress for dinner and surprise which turned out to be my birthday gift, tickets to the marvellous production at Treasure Island Hotel, _Mystère_, from a tumbling troupe called Cirque do Soleil who, I swear, are able to defy gravity itself. (As if weekend minibreak in Las Vegas was not gift enough.)

Then, this morning, another long lie-in before lunch and packing to catch flight. As we drove to airport with the usual hours to spare, we passed a sign for a wedding chapel. "Oh," said Mark, noticing it. "Those seem to be everywhere, don't they?"

Heart had started racing, as had indeed noticed they seemed to be everywhere. He wasn't going to tell the taxi driver to pull aside, was he? "I guess," I said. Did not want to make it sound like self had noticed.

He chuckled. "That sure would make everything a whole lot easier, wouldn't it? Hm."

Worried that maybe he would actually divert taxi to the next one we saw. To my great relief, though, we did not in fact pull over and get hitched by Elvis.

Trying not to jinx self, but everything going so well since our reunion—so right and perfect—that half-expect some disastrous chain of events to ruin it all. And that the chain will be something set off inadvertently by self.

**Mon, 13 Apr**

_8st 9 (miracle of miracles), cigarettes 5 (good), alcohol units 4 (saintly), sunny days remaining 17._

**9.15 am.** V. busy few weeks doing more script reviews for Grant as well as work pitches and time-lapse meetings. Despite big fears previously expected, everything still going swimmingly, which is miracle or similar. Have discussed wedding off and on, though we have decided not to start any planning (or plans to plan) until back in London, as we can take no action until then, anyway.

Oh. Telephone.

**9.26 am.** Was Mark with unexpectedly devastating news. "Job is wrapping up earlier than we thought, darling," he said.

Took a moment to realise what he meant. Job being over meant we would be leaving heavenly Californian paradise. "Oh," I said.

Heard him chuckle down the telephonic line. "We'll be home by the end of the month," he said, "but it almost sounds like you're disappointed to hear it."

"Of course I'm not," I lied. Not that did not want to go home, but was not expecting it to end a month too soon.

"So between your work," he said, not addressing my comment because he probably didn't believe the lie, "you should start to make sure your things are gathered together to be packed up. We can ship back things we can't fit into our suitcases."

Suddenly it seemed an impossible task. Had completely and totally insinuated self into rented house without much thought to leaving. Flat will now seem like tiny postage stamp, and London a place that the sun has decided to boycott except for vomiting heat in the dead of August.

**3.17 pm.** Feeling lower than low. Have spent entire morning and afternoon so far walking around house and am seeing so much to do that feel will never get it done before we leave. Do not know where to begin.

**6.12 pm.** Mark returned home to find self face down on the bed with head under pillow (would have climbed under duvet but was far too warm).

"What's wrong?" he asked, sitting and placing a hand on my back, rubbing reassuringly.

"Never going to be able to pack this all up," I said in pillow-muffled voice.

"After only three and a half months? That doesn't bode well," he said with a chuckle.

"I knoooow," I lamented.

"It really doesn't bode well," he went on, not particularly helpfully, "for when you finally leave a flat you've been in for years."

Total trauma at the thought of eventual day when would move out and in with husband (at the moving, not the husband). Uttered long, sustained groan, at which he began to laugh a little heartier.

"It's not funny," I said.

"Sorry to tease you," he said. "I'll be here to help."

Lifted head out from under pillow to look at him. "You will?"

He nodded. "Well, after Wednesday."

Huge wave of relief. Mark could organise anything. Then became indignant at his assumption. "Wait!" I said. "Why is it that I have to leave my house? Why isn't it that you have to leave yours?

He just gave me penetrating look. Realised at once it was ridiculous thing to say, as he and all of his law books, despite minimal decoration, would never fit in my flat. "Actually," he said, "I had a thought…"

"Oh?"

"Mmm," he affirmed. "Bring the best things about your flat to my house. The reality is that the flat—"

"I know," I said, chastened. "It really is too small for us to live in."

"But it could do temporarily," he said.

"Temporarily what?"

"I want you to make the house…" Mark faltered. "…less white. And while the house is being done up, we can stay in your flat."

Blimey. Had no idea he had been giving this so much thought. "Where did this come from?" I asked. Not that was unreceptive, mind. Just so out of nowhere.

He took a moment to think about his response. "I don't want to go on living apart," he said. "Not after living together here for months. It'll feel like a step backwards."

Love that he was so willing to be so open about his feelings. Never would have happened before our reconciliation. Then realised what he was really saying. "You mean as soon as we get back?" I asked. "Not when we're married?" He looked a little hurt. Did sound like I was objecting, so quickly amended, "I mean, it's a lovely idea. I _love_ it. I just… I didn't expect you'd want to live together before we were married."

"I'm not _that_ steeped in English tradition, darling," he said, smiling, obviously more relaxed now. "If I _were_, we wouldn't be living in sin with you halfway 'round the world in sunny LA." Started to chuckle as he drew me into his arms.

Truth be told if not for 'living in sin' like we have been, would be far more terrified at the prospect of permanent cohabitation with Mark. Believe with all my heart that Magda was right, after all; because LA scenario was a temporary one, it served as a no-pressure trial period. If it had been a total cock-up, we could have returned to London and back to our respective places until we could figure out our future. Fortunately, LA had not been a cock-up at all. In fact, it had served to make all transitions smoother.

**Tues, 14 Apr**

_8st 9 (continued magic), cigarettes 4 (does this mean am giving up?), alcohol units 5 (not quite as saintly as would like), days left in Pacific time zone 16._

**10.25 am.** Took deep breath first thing this morning and rang up Mum to give her news about the end of our stay in LA. Am only just off. Now worrying that phone bill will be astronomically high, but Mum would not be put off until she had told me all about Julie Enderby's passel of tiny brats.

"So you'll be back, and you can get properly married at last," Mum said.

"Yes, Mum," I said. First twinges of horror to come, planning wedding with motherly interference.

"So looking forward," she said. Dooooom.

**Noon.** Just about to have lunch, still feeling overwhelmed by thoughts of packing up things from our stay here. Looking forward to Thursday when Mark will be here to take charge of things. Surely okay for now to have little glass of wine with lunch to calm nerves, in lieu of smoking.

**12.17 pm.** Hm. Will just have a little more wine. Now feel as if have the willpower to maybe tackle some packing tasks.

**1.30 pm.** Ooh. One side of bureau now empty! Easier than thought.

**3.13 pm.** Bit more wine. Make things much easy-peasier.

**9.30 pm.** Oops. Got a little tipsier than expected. When Mark returned home, found me sat on floor of bedroom with contents of bureau around me. He laughed, sat next to me, then wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him. "You're ridiculous," he murmured, then kissed me.

He suggested then we perhaps tidy the clothes into some semblance of order (i.e. put them back into the bureau) then make dinner, which we have just finished eating: stir fry with turkey breast, broccoli crowns, onion, snap peas and rice. Have almost regained sobriety levels again. Feel a bit sheepish for making spectacle of self.

Gah!

**11.45 pm.** Was Mark behind me began to chuckle.

"Don't read," I said, holding diary to self.

"I'm not, I promise," he said to me, then nuzzled into neck. "The 'making spectacle of self' caught my eye, that's all. If you are a spectacle… you're the best sort."

Then kissed me properly, swept me up and off to bed (figuratively and a tiny bit literally)… but now cannot sleep as brain is fixated on notion that Mark would surely chuck self from life if ever he read diary. Or horrified to think he has read parts and not said anything, too terrified to mention to self as if am too unstable to handle hearing the truth.

No, _no_. Must not undermine self-confidence—or relationship!—in this way. Everything is good. Life finally on track.

**11.47 pm.** Surely, though, Mark has never read diary. He is far too respectful of privacy. Would be remarkable lack of trust on my part to even ask.

**11.54 pm.** "Bridget, go to sleep." Was Mark's drowsy voice, slightly irritated.

"Can't," I said.

After a pause, he said, "You _do_ know I would never read your diary, right?"

"Of course," I murmured.

Feel better having heard him say it. How well he knows me. Time to snuggle up and go to sleep, properly.

**Mon, 4 May**

_8st 13 (harsh reality), cigarettes 12 (bloody hell), alcohol units 5 (total necessity), holes in wall 0._

**12.16 pm.** **London.** Absolutely crammed schedule once Mark was available to help pack. Total taskmaster, but on other hand is exactly what was needed. Finished with days to spare, shipped a bunch of stuff back to Mark's house.

The law partners threw us a party the Friday before our Sunday flight. It was v. g. but bittersweet, having to go after getting to know them. The fun of going out for the afternoon with Juliza and her daughter, chatting with Eduardo and him asking advice before passing the phone over to Mark (to be honest, became convinced he was calling really to talk to me but didn't want Mark to think he was trying anything funny). But had always known this would be the case, so not unexpected.

Many promises made at party of coming London to visit, though will not hold them to it, as were all pretty hammered and London is, after all, v. great distance away from LA. Promised to keep in touch, which do intend to keep, despite being hammered.

All of Sunday lost to flying and time difference. Returned to flat, also slightly bittersweet, with slightly stagnant air. At least friends had been coming by to tend to continued accumulation of mail. Nothing urgent or friends would have let me know, surely. Quick review proved correct. Spending night alone in flat reaffirmed decision to cohabitate with Mark in near future. Was v. lonely, too quiet.

Had decided in advance not to wake to attend Monday morning meeting, so have not roused self from bedroom until now. Too hungry to remain in bed further.

**12.23 pm.** Gah! Hole in wall is magically gone!

**12.33 pm.** Rang up Mark to tell him news of wall.

"Mark!" I said. "Hole in wall has mended itself while we were gone!"

"Ah, has it, now?"

"Yes!" I said. "There is _no more hole_. It's a miracle!"

He began to chuckle. Suspected at self, not with self. "It's not a miracle," he said. "I coordinated with Sharon to get someone to fix it and patch it up for security reasons."

Then remembered the point of the hole in the first place. "What about the infill extension?"

"Hardly need it now, do you?" he reminded, and couldn't really argue with that.

**12.47 pm.** Hell. Have run out of cigarettes, and Mark has the rest of the packets sent to LA. Suppose now am back can stop at shop on way to office and get a packet, so is not end of world. V. dangerous threat to my attempts to give up.

**11.04 pm.** Exhausted after the afternoon at work, more of an appearance than anything else, as got nothing accomplished. Nice to see everyone again. Even Finch (who is back and on probationary period after rehab stay) offered grudging respect. Will work at home tomorrow, though, and probably Wednesday as well, at least.

Then for dinner Mark came by with Chinese takeaway. "Too tired to cook," he said, "and I missed you." So sweet. Spotted the packet of cigarettes on the table by the couch and asked if had kept to my six a day.

"Of course," I lied.

"How many cigarettes did you have so far today, then?" he asked, calmly yet authoritatively, in manner of top barrister.

"Five," I lied again.

Before I could get to them, he swept up the packet. "So there should be at least fifteen in here," he said, "as I know you had a few from your mass-purchase left over. Will I find fifteen or more cigarettes in this packet?"

Said nothing. Had been caught red-handed.

To my surprise he gave the packet over to me. "I could portion out more for tomorrow," he said gently, "but at the end of the day, you're a grown woman and I can't make you stop. Please do try, though. For me."

He couldn't stay much past dinner as he had loads of papers to review. Cannot help reflecting on how much guiltier will feel when smoking the seventh or more cig of day. Is true what they say about killing more flies with honey than vinegar.

**Weds, 6 May**

_8st 13 (holding steady), cigarettes 15 (more guilt than not), alcohol units 2 (making up for the cigarettes), bad habits not resumed 0._

**12.16 pm.** Worked at home yesterday and today as expected. Mark came by yesterday evening, and of course it was nice to see him again, but it felt a bit strange to revert to pre-LA rituals and logistics after so much time together. Not sure how will ever pack up flat without Mark being task-master, overseeing entire operation. Maybe can get him to help. Secretly think he likes to be all authoritative, and am all too happy to let him feel that way when he is really doing self a big favour.

This weekend going to Grafton Underwood and environs for parental visit, as have not seen them since Sit Up Britain trip, but before that will have night out with friends on Friday. Will be v. g. to see Mum and Dad, though am sure Mum will drive me bananas within short order.

**5.30 pm.** Mark has dinner meeting so am on own for tonight. Bad habits reasserting themselves as have made mini pizzas for dinner with wine, and now that have been free to purchase own cigarettes and am not under Mark's rationing have been smoking more than should again.

Will make up for excessive cigarette consumption by only having this second glass of wine.

**Sat, 9 May**

_9st 1 (This. Must. Stop.), cigarettes 8 (making effort—6 per daily allotment, 2 with Elaine), alcohol units 0 (too much last night), parental surprises multiple._

**9.07 am.** Startled awake just now by sound of mobile trilling away. Lifted head to find it to answer call, and felt as if mountain of broken glass shifted in head. Was Mark, reminding that he would be here by 10.00 for drive to Grafton Underwood. Why did self think a night out before parental trip was a good idea? Will never learn.

**9.50 am.** Glugging down coffee, devouring a pastry before Mark arrives. Shocking that have managed to pull self together for his arrival with time to spare. Must be that am well-trained after months of living together.

Last night was v. g. time. Went to 192 to meet up with Tom, Jude (who'd brought Vile Richard), and Shaz (with Simon). Didn't have to buy any drinks for self all night. There were many… and they were excellent, _excellent_ drinks. Was relief to not have to pop outside every time wanted a smoke, unlike LA. Danced so much that feet still hurt, so am almost looking forward to two hour car ride.

Oo! Telephone.

**9.59 am.** Was Mark, who just arrived. Really, did not have to sound so surprised that am ready to go.

**10.03 am.** Ooh! Mark has brought self the remaining Silk Cut from LA. Honestly, did not have to tease me that was hugging packets as if a new puppy.

**11.01 pm.** In bedroom of parents' house, alone in single bed. Wish v. much that Mark could have stayed, but sharing single bed impractical, and Mum would have had unholy conniption at the very thought. (Is a bit weird, actually, to think of having a shag with Mark in this bed. Or with anyone, actually. Though do not want anyone else.)

Today with parents was actually v. g. Mark was only going to drop self off but Dad met us in the drive and invited Mark to stay for lunch. (Love that there is never a worry about whether parents actually like Mark.) Mum saw ring for the first time in person and she went all pink and fluttery in the manner of Una Alconbury.

"Oh my _godfathers_, Bridget," she said in a tremulous voice. "It's beautiful. Mark, it's just beautiful. You chose it yourself?"

"I had a little help," he admitted. "The saleswoman at the jewellers, who alerted me to the ring. It was off to the side, not the usual choice for engagement in the US."

Mum was unexpectedly subdued. "Such good taste," she said. "Colin, doesn't Mark have marvellous taste?"

"Of course he does," said my dad. "He picked Bridget, after all."

Had thought that after lunch that Mark would go over to his parents to spend the night as originally planned, but Mum advised otherwise. "You're going too," she said. Had moment of glee at thinking could stay with Mark at their house, but then she added, "You're having dinner tonight with the Darcys, and Mark will bring you back afterwards."

Should have guessed that Mum and Elaine Darcy had arranged things for us, but at least Mark and self could sit (read: cuddle) on the sofa for a while as Dad watched the football. Weirdly, Mum sat to my other side, and was unusually physically affectionate, made conversation in the lulls, at the appropriate times. Reminded me of the day at Colour Me Beautiful when she had consoled me when had bared soul about Mark. Was v. nice, but was so unlike her.

Dinner at the Darcys was equally lovely. Malcolm can be a bit reticent—not a surprise, as steeped in tradition as the Darcys are—but he is clearly approving of me. Elaine, well… she and I went out in the garden to smoke a few Sobranies together and when we came back inside, Mark just sort of smiled and rolled his eyes playfully. Think he is equally glad his parents like me.

Had dessert then a little snog in private (his childhood room is literally a snapshot of his youth; debate trophies, etc. etc.) before he brought me back here to my parents'. Lengthy kiss at the door made me wish he weren't leaving.

Tomorrow's plan is to head back to London just after lunch, in time to prepare for dinner at Magda's. Fear it is a Smug Married do, but surely is no big deal now that am engaged.


	5. Chapter 5

**Bridget Jones: A Brand New Start**

By S. Faith, © 2014-2015

Words: 50,000 in 6 chapters  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

**Sun, 10 May**

_9st 2 (bloody overindulgence), cigarettes 6 (better, better), alcohol units 5 (necessity at dinner), deflected jellyfish stings dozens._

**11.31 am.** Mark was supposed to turn up at noon for lunch, but came a bit early. He didn't really explain why, but the length of his hug suggested his motive. Will have traditional Sunday lunch of salmon and new potatoes, then be on the road back home.

**10.57 pm. Mark's house.** Back from Magda's dinner party. As suspected was in fact a Smug Married do. Was nice to not be the spare girl. Surprise of life, though, when Giles turned up with Rebecca in tow. Magda pulled me aside as soon as was prudent, mortified about the situation. "Jeremy asked Giles," she said, "but I had no idea they were still together, that he would be bringing her."

Resolved to be above the fray, and said calmly, "It's all right. I can be civil."

"The question is," she said with a smile, "can she?"

Nicest surprise of the evening was Mark. He saw through her saccharine sweetness and deflected her attempts at jellyfishing. Though shouldn't be surprised, as he has always been good about defending self, like at Jude's wedding (we'd had a good laugh for weeks afterwards about the Kurdish-fertility-symbol hole in dress—in fact, shortly after wedding, he bought a small goddess figure for self, declaring that she was the fertility goddess, accompanied by a v. naughty pair of lacy pants designed to be v. convenient to fertility).

All present (save Rebecca) had wonderful things to say on engagement and on ring. Suppose that silence from Rebecca is as best as could expect under the circumstances. Other highlights: Cosmo and Woney—not pregnant for once!—were kind in their way. Suppose would have been surprised if he hadn't made snarky "About time"-style comment and wondering if self was up the spout. Insensitive bastard, though. Giles was a darling though. He paid compliments about happy we look, how happy we would undoubtedly be and how lucky Mark was. (Swear could see steam coming out of Rebecca's ears.) Jeremy also seemed so genuinely pleased for us.

We left as soon as was decent to come back to London and straight back to Holland Park. Had brought along a packed overnight bag to stay with Mark tonight, as it has been hell to be so close to him all weekend and have nothing but a cuddle and a snog. Do not even care that may be late for Monday morning meeting. Was totally worth it.

**Tues, 12 May**

_9st (yesss), cigarettes 5 (v. g.), alcohol units 1 (am ready for canonisation any moment), plans embarked upon 2._

**8.26 am.** Love working at home, love keeping reasonable hours / not waking at first light, but it does get a bit lonely at times. Maybe will take walk around neighbourhood for some exercise or fresh air.

**9.15 am.** Morning constitutional has turned into coffee and pastry run. So desperate for chocolate though. Last night, Mark brought up the topic of living together. Specifically, moving into flat while house is done up, which had forgotten we had discussed. But no plans for house being done up yet. "I need you," he said. Had hoped that would go without saying, but then he went on, and realised he meant more than just as life partner, etc. "I don't know how to make it more like your flat, Bridget. All warm and comfy and homey."

Those soulful brown eyes. Of course would do anything possible to make his house a true home. Still remember what he said about preferring to stay at my flat. "I'd love to do whatever you want for the house," I said. "Bear in mind, though, that the ambience of my flat was crafted over many years."

He chuckled. "Duly noted," he said. "We'll just need to find an interior designer. Perhaps a… quirky one."

"We can look at books and magazines, too," I offered. "Maybe an interior designer can come to the flat and look around and then… work some magic." Even as the words came out of mouth, wished self would be struck dumb. Did I really want a snooty stranger coming in to flat to pass judgement?

"That's a great idea," he said with a grin.

So now am charged with finding a designer. Do not know any designers.

**10.15 am.** Ooh. Can ask Jude later if she knows anyone.

**1.45 pm.** Back from lunch with the girls. Jude unfortunately did not have anyone to recommend, but there was only a moment of disappointment when Shaz spoke up. "Ooh, I bet Simon knows someone," she said. Had forgotten Simon is architect. She figured he must work with interior designers all the time, so we rang him right there.

"Sure, I know a few," he said casually. "What have you got in mind?"

Briefly explained Operation Holland Park, that was charged to redecorate the place in advance of moving in. "Not a surface redecoration, either," I said. "He plans on moving into my flat with me while the work's done."

"Wow, that's serious," he said with a chuckle. "I'll see what I can come up with."

Hurrah! Feel v. excited about this. Simon knows self pretty well and think he will not steer me wrong.

After Simon put down the call, though, Shaz was a bit of a wet blanket. "So when do you start planning the wedding, Bridge?"

Ugh. Have not given it a thought since returning. Had not thought about it in whilst in LA since could not take action. "I don't know," I sighed. "It all seems so overwhelming."

"You have to break it down to smaller tasks," Jude said authoritatively. "I can guide you through it."

Want help, but imagine Jude to be like scary headmistress, just as when she was planning her own wedding.

**3.30 pm.** Though Jude is right. Need to start planning soon. Though suppose we should, er, name the day. Spring would be nice, but do not want to wait that long. Is this autumn too soon? Winter? Jude's in December was not bad, though do recall it was a bit cold in the church.

Actually, do not want over-the-top ceremony/reception like Jude's at Claridges. Total insanity, not to mention could afford small island nation for the price of that circus. Suspect that Mark would feel the same. Will ask him over dinner tonight.

**11.05 pm.** Mark just off. As predicted, when asked, he said he would prefer something small and intimate. Relief must have been instant and obvious, because he looked at me and laughed lightly.

"It's funny," he said with a grin. "I would have pegged you for a fancy do."

Was not sure if should be offended or not. "The wedding's not the end game," I said, thinking of all of the problems Jude and Richard had had after such an expensive wedding. "The marriage part is."

He reached across the table and took my hand, gave it a little squeeze. Seems Mark had a further confession, because he added sheepishly, "I'd actually prefer to keep it out of London."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hm," he said. "Maybe the church in Huntingdon is free."

Saw his point. "Could ask Mum about the church in Grafton Underwood too."

"Very good," he said. "Though I suppose this means we need to pick a date."

Was actually v. casual and calm as we pulled out our diaries to see what was going on the rest of the year. Mark agreed sooner rather than later was best, and we settled on 26 September this year. A Saturday.

"Provided the church is free," Mark added.

"It'll be free," I said confidently. "If someone was going to be married there this autumn, my mum would have already told me all about it."

Oh my God, it's really real.

**2.03 am.** Cannot sleep. Brain thinking a million things about wedding planning. Hope this is not how next few months will be. And redecorating and moving on top of this. Oh God.

**Sun, 14 June**

_8st 10 (but at too great a price?), cigarettes 7 (sod the sodding quota), alcohol units 5 (sod the sodding guidelines), wedding thoughts countless._

**9.20 pm.** Between wedding plans and redecorating plans, the past month has been beyond busy. Simon really came through and found a decorator called Damian who came by my flat, took one look around, asked Mark some questions about what he liked best about it, then scurried away and worked magic. We did a few shopping trips together, some with just Damian, and some with all three of us. Mark seemed way more interested in the process than ever expected.

Now they are doing up house, so Mark has been living here in flat for a week now. He pops round the house to see how things are going and seems v. pleased with the progress so far. We in turn have been packing up flat (thank God for Mark, once again).

On the wedding front, Mum has taken care of arranging church. Was available, just as expected. Making progress on dress decision. Going to look at flowers (though do not want a garden's worth, just small bouquet). Still need to finalise cake and catering. If not for Mark's efficiency would be way further behind for a wedding that is taking place in three months.

Wedding party decisions were v. difficult as did not want there to be hurt feelings. Seemed only right that friend have known the longest, Magda, should be maid—or rather, matron—of honour. Mark's brother Peter, whom have actually never met, has agreed to be best man. Wanted urban family to be involved, too, so Shaz and Jude will be bridesmaids, and Tom and Jeremy as groomsmen. Jamie will do reading and so will Peter's wife. (Really should learn name.) Had not realised until called to talk that Jamie and Becca split in January. Am such a terrible sister.

**9.39 pm.** Hm, though. Would Jude be considered a bridesmatron, as is married?

**9.51 pm.** Though the word 'bridesmatron' looks like would be a type of robot. Now imagining giant metal android stomping through London in satin, crinolines and tulle.

**10.15 pm.** Mark has just reminded self that have hideously early morning meeting tomorrow and should come to bed.

"Mark," I asked, patting face dry with towel, "why haven't I met your brother before?"

"What are you talking about?" he returned, stowing his toothbrush for the night. "You've met him."

I turned to face him, astonished. "When?"

He chuckled. "My mother didn't just bring _me_ to paddling pool parties, you know."

"Is he older than you?"

Mark chuckled again. "I was born only a year after my parents were married. So, no. He's older than _you_, though. He's sort of right in the middle between us."

"Ah," I said. Could not remember him, but shouldn't be a surprise as did not remember Mark at that age, either. "Well, it will be nice to meet him again."

**Thurs, 18 June**

_8st 11 (cannot account for fluctuations), cigarettes 5 (better), alcohol units 3 (reasonable for a weekday), number of white objects selected by Mark Darcy 7._

**10.07 am.** Over the course of wedding planning, have noticed that friends have been ten times more inquisitive (read: hounding) over the progress of said planning than own mother has been. Especially strange in this is odd silence from the one person expected to have loudest opinion on wedding plans: Tom. Not sure what to make of this, as seems like natural order of things has been thrown asunder. Do not understand.

**11.45 am.** Just got call from Mark to tell me that by the weekend we can begin bringing things over. "They're done with the kitchen level, and nearly done with the main floor," he said happily.

So excited to see finished product. Have seen small progresses (which are v. g.) but have not been there in a while, per Mark's wishes. Not a whole lot changing on kitchen level, but am told is important change: removal of brushed steel cupboard doors. Was funny, though, shopping for things for house with Mark. Seemed to be curiously attracted to all things white, so had to tease him mercilessly about wanting to get married only because bride is dressed in white. V. telling that his reply was to say nothing at all except to smirk and mention his pleasure at confirmation that self will be wearing white. Beginning to wonder if Mark is colour-blind. (Not that there is anything wrong with that.)

Will spend some time putting things into the open boxes so can tape them up, but must finish today's work first.

**12.30 pm.** Taking short break from packing. Have had thought. Shall find one of those colour-blind image tests and ask him to pick out the number hidden there.

**12:45 pm.** Oh, even better. Will find red nightie and ask him what colour he thinks I'm wearing.

(Is not fatal flaw, obviously, but hope Mark is not colour-blind, as that makes his driving a bit dodgier.)

**6.30 pm.** Greeted Mark as he entered flat dressed only in nightie. (Me, not Mark.) He looked a bit startled. "Well, am certainly glad I didn't bring Nigel by for those papers," he said drolly, as his eyes darted down. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Just wanted to show off my new green nightie," I said, trying to catch him in a trap.

He only stared longer. "Curious," he said, "as it looks just like your old nightie, and it's, um, red, to boot. You're not colour-blind, are you?"

Well, that settled that suspicion. Though trap did have delightful side benefit; we fixed supper together, and felt more than once fingers brush against thigh and bottom as we passed each other in kitchen. V. nice.

**Weds, 1 July**

_9st 2 (seamstress will murder self soon), cigarettes 4 (v. g.), alcohol units 6 (give or take 1 or 2), friendships teetering on edge of implosion 1._

**9.05 am.** Have appointment today with bridal boutique, for fitting for wedding dress, then girls for theirs. A bit apprehensive, actually, as Mum is coming down to go with me.

Pleased to have made final dress decision, though am sure was several pounds lighter when first tried on. Hoping that the weight that has appeared is on calves or head or other convenient place that will not affect dress size. Is beautiful dress. Simple, and potential for reuse after wedding. Looks like something Audrey Hepburn might have worn.

Also have chosen veil to wear with tiara, which was bestowed upon self by Elaine Darcy, since, as she told me, she already thinks of self as a daughter of her heart, since she had no daughter of own. V. touched. Is one she wore to own wedding. Is not huge and grand in manner of Diana on wedding day, but is light and delicately beautiful in manner of fairy princess. Never thought would have tiara for wedding like future princess—though, then again, maybe should not think of that connection, as that had not ended v. well, after all.

Will be nice, lovely day out with own mother, bonding experience. Looking v. forward.

**5.30 pm.** Totally shattered. Mum was back to her old self; although she tried to keep a rein on tongue, there were some comments she could not hold back. Sample view:

"Are you sure about _that_?" she said, pointing to the bust line as I stood there on footstool thing, with seamstress on knees hemming around the bottom. "A bit low. Too much décolletage on one's wedding day, I don't know…"

"Mum," I said. "It's not that low, honestly." And it's not. Is hardly a bikini top.

A little while later: "Aren't you going to be warm with those sleeves?"

"Wedding is at the end of September, Mum," I reminded. Sleeves are three-quarter, will have gloves for ceremony. Church is, I recall, an ice chest at that time of year.

"I know, I know," she said. She paced around to look at me from multiple points of view. "You really do look like an angel," she said softly after a few minutes. "Oh," Mum then said. "Almost forgot. Do you mind?" This last question was meant for the seamstress, Dot, ancient, grey-haired granny, but was nimble-fingered and did beautiful work.

"Of course not," said Dot, getting to her feet. "I need to take a little break, too."

My mum, in the meanwhile, was digging into her handbag for something. "We have to complete the look, you know." She looked up and I realised then that she was holding a long clamshell box. Immediately recognised the box, as had seen the box in Mum's bureau for as long as I could remember. She opened it and pulled out the string of pearls within. Couldn't help gasping.

Bent forward as she reached up to clasp the pearls around my neck. As I drew away could see the tears in her eyes.

"There you are! Perfect!" she said brightly, sniffing, attempting to hide the emotion. Turned to look in the mirror. It _was_ perfect. The pearls—a strand that had seemed exceedingly long when I was a child—was short enough that it did not even skim the top of the 'low' collar.

"Now, I have the earrings too, but we'll not try putting those on right now."

"No need," I said, tears in my own eyes. "I love it."

Dot was just finishing up the lower hem—sensible floor length for September, and no mad train on which self or others can step—when Magda, Jude and Shaz turned up for their own fittings. "Hi!" said Magda. Shaz and Jude had brief 'deer in headlights' look before plastering smiles on faces.

Magda loves my mum, and I know Shaz and Jude do too, but I don't think that they knew (or remembered) she would be here with me. "Oh, _Bridge_, simply stunning," said Jude as her gaze lit on me, despite pins in hem, etc. "So classy, and classic."

Unexpectedly felt tears well in eyes. Whirlwind of emotion, obviously, and not sadness. Suddenly things were v. real. "Thanks," I said, wiping the dampness away from under my eyes. "I love it, too."

"Come now, before you get your makeup on it," Dot tut-tutted, "let's get that dress off and we'll start on your girls."

Got down from the little footstool thing with a steadying hand from Jude (Dot did not seem like she could support self's weight if had a fall). Dot then herded me back to the change room and helped me out of it. She hung it up as I dressed again.

The girls' dresses are equally simple and streamlined. No mountains of lace and frill, but chosen using Audrey Hepburn principle, i.e. would she have worn this? (Am sure the seventies were not the pinnacle of her fashion choices (as was the case for most) so disregarding those years.) They are in a dark royal blue, which is favourite colour. Mum thinks blue is too wintry, but did not want more autumnal burnt sienna or yellow ochre.

Magda went first because of needing to get back to her kids. Could not help but think how great she looks considering she's had three. Then Jude went next; was a bit depressing watching Jude getting her dress altered, with her flat stomach and flawless tone. Shaz is more normal, but with less cellulite than self. Felt like self was a fat splodge. Hope Mark's having better luck with his suit stuff. Assume he is handling this, as he is good at handling most things. Gave him swatch of blue from dresses for coordination purposes. (Oh God. Hope he does not think this means he should get blue suits.)

Speaking of Mark, should be here soon. Complications in remodel mean he is here at least through July. Hurrah! We are not driving each other mad yet. V. g. sign.

**7.35 pm.** Interesting night.

Mark came shortly after end of previous entry, looking rather pensive, bringing takeaway supper. Asked him what was the matter. Apparently Jeremy could not make the appointment—possibly because of Magda's?—so he told Mark he'd be happy with whatever was decided. (Same as what Peter said, though Peter is in Hong Kong.) So it was just Mark and Tom. Mark told me all about it as we ate. They chose something nice—black suit with tails, charcoal grey waistcoat, and top hats!—and will do ties in the same shade of blue as the girls' dresses. (Should have guessed Tom would not disappoint.)

He concluded with, "Tom seemed a bit… off."

Thought about it. Thought it may be due to fact that Mark and Tom have not gone out together before without self. Perhaps a bit of awkwardness. Shared this speculation with him.

He drew his brows together. "I don't know if it's that. He seemed really down. And he said something odd about… well, I don't think he knew I could hear."

Had noted his sombre demeanour but no idea it had had persisted. Was beyond intriguing. "What? _What?!_"

Mark looked like he was about to break a confidence. "How if he was going to lose his best friend that at least it wasn't to a fuckwit."

My mind spun off in a whirl. Was this what his depressive state was all about? He thought he was going to lose me? Silly, silly Tom.

"Bridget?" Mark prompted.

"I have to call Tom," I said, then went to where my mobile sat, swept it up then rang up Tom. When he answered, sounding a bit like Eeyore, I commanded him to meet me for a drink after dinner. Not asked. Commanded.

"But I—"

"No excuses, Dukes Bar, 8pm," I said. Then, softer, added, "We have something very important to discuss."

Mark was kind enough to offer to drive me to Dukes. Told me to call when done. Love him.

**11.52 pm.** Blurry goodime love the tommy Tom.

**Thurs, 2 July**

_9st 2½ (but worth it in end), cigarettes 5 (vile hangover), alcohol units 0 (never drinking again as long as live), feelings of bliss despite vile hangover countless, unsettling feelings about friend's fuckwit husband also countless._

**11.26 am.** Thank goodness can set own hours and did not have early morning meeting. Mark was lovely coming to get me far later than he likes to stay up.

Because Mark drove self, got there with time to spare. Ordered first cocktail of the night before Tom showed his face. Got a bit worried, actually, that he might ditch me, but after such silly worrying he simply turned up late.

He tried to be cheerful and smiley but had a look about him as one might see in a boyfriend suspecting he might be about to be dumped. He ordered his martini then, after it had arrived and he'd taken a long draw off of it, he asked with buoyed brightness, "So, Bridge, what's this about?"

"You," I said, "are being a ninny."

"What?" he said, shocked at my being so direct.

"Mark overheard you worrying about losing me as a friend because I'm getting married."

"Oh God," he said, covering his face with his hand. "I'm sorry, Bridge. I should know better, but…" He sighed. "I know what I'm like when I'm in that shag heaven with a new boyfriend. I never call anyone, never see anyone."

"But _I_ don't do that," I said gently, though wondered if it was totally true since back from LA. He went on as if I hadn't spoken.

"But a husband is a commitment well beyond 'boyfriend'. It's for _life_," he said, seemingly relieved to be unburdening himself at last. "And what about children? They'll eat up your spare time…"

Mark and I had not even really discussed children yet. Felt somewhat overwhelmed at that moment, which meant a lightening of the tone was necessary. "Yes, well, I have every intention of being a very inattentive mum," I joked, "who plans on getting drunk _every_ night."

Tom's sidelong glance was priceless. "You're just saying that to make me feel better," he murmured.

"I'm not!" I protested, then smiled, then began to laugh. Tom did, too. "Really, Tom, I'll always be here. I've been here the whole time I've been going out with Mark. Hell, even while I was in California, I was there." I reached over and patted his hand. "I'm really not going anywhere."

"Oh, Bridge," he said, then leaned over to hug me so quickly he almost tipped off his bar stool. "I don't know _what_ I'd do without you."

With that out of the way we each had another drink, and then another and another. Before we knew it we were closing the place out, ringing for Mark (thank God he's on speed dial), and he scooped us both up (Tom to Mark: "You're too good for me… you're _too bloooody good_!") to take Tom home and then take us back to the flat. Was so squiffy. Am sure I tried his patience but he was so good and kind. Owe him a nice little present or a favour or something.

**11.50 am.** Having coffee and lunch now. Imagining what Mark will look like in hat, tails and waistcoat. Phwoar. V. Mr Darcy.

**6.45 pm.** Hm. When Mark came in he looked v. distressed. Met him practically at door—one cocktail short of 1950s housewife—to give him hug, then asked, "What is it?"

He looked really torn, though knew he wasn't going to get away with not saying anything. "I went to lunch today with Giles. I saw… I saw Richard."

"Is that all?" I asked. Really not like him to get so worked up over Vile Richard. "I know he's a bit insufferable and all but…" Trailed off when saw the stern look on his face.

"I mean," said Mark, "he wasn't alone."

Felt heart in throat. "Oh no," I said. The fact that Mark did not immediately say "But it was another man" or "But it was his gran" told me everything. "Oh God." Felt urgent need to sit, and Mark must have too. We sat together on the sofa. He took my hand in his.

"I know," he said. "It seemed… more than platonic. The moment he saw me he snapped into best behaviour, at least until he thought I was out of sight."

Torn about what to do. Had always suspected that Richard was not going to easily change his ways, but should Jude hear about this? She trusts Mark would not lie. But we're all so innately biased against Richard—and who knows what Mark actually saw? He is pretty prudish when it comes to public displays of affection. Or at least used to be.

"I knew you'd want to know," he continued. "I wasn't sure…" He trailed off. Great rush of relief that he wasn't certain either.

"Oh God!" I said again. "What should we do?"

He looked at me with an impossible-to-interpret expression. "I suppose if it were as easy as telling her, I would have just done that without hesitation," he said at last. "What if I misread the situation? I don't want to throw unnecessary suspicion on him."

Agreed and nodded, though could not help thinking of witch in the Whistles suit with Jeremy, how I had said nothing and it had been an affair—though that had ultimately worked itself out without outside interference. Then, as had never told him about it before, explained that whole situation.

Could see Mark begin nodding too. "You did the right thing with Jeremy," he said. "The natural course worked itself out there, and Jeremy's a better husband for it. I think at this juncture, non-interference is the way forward." Sounded so lawyerly.

Then he smiled, tugged the hand he held to pull me to sit on his lap. Surprised self, though was not unwelcome. Held me close, hands broad and reassuring on back… Mmm.

"Another Dating—or should it be Relationship?—War Command scenario handled admirably," he murmured, "but it was sort of nice, being more than just observer."

Tsked him with a tongue-cluck. "This isn't over," I said. "We have to plan for Jude should things take a turn for the worse. Have to also bring Tom and Shaz up to speed. Support system's got to be in place."

Heard him chuckle v. close to ear, then kiss that little bit of ear just above the lobe. Mm. "You're lovely," he said. "I've told you that recently, haven't I?"

"Never," I said with mock offense. In truth, says so quite often, but will never tire of hearing it again.

After a few minutes of lovely cuddling, Mark suggested that since we need to have dinner anyway, we should go out. "Why not ask Tom and Sharon, too?" he said. "Do one of those… what do you call them? Emergency summits?"

"Oh, yes, good idea," I said, though was beginning to feel a bit discombobulated. Although like this new aspect v. much, is as if Mark is not Mark but pod-person.

**10.15 pm.** Home, pleasantly buzzed.

Rang them up to insist upon emergency summit at Café Rouge. Advised was about potential crisis re: Jude, so she was not to know.

When they arrived (we were, of course, first), neither could hide surprise at Mark's presence. "This was his idea," I said. "Let him explain."

So Mark did, laying out the case like a lawyer in trial. Was actually kind of funny how he took things over. V. authoritative (which love).

Sharon and Tom were incensed, but sadly, not surprised.

"That _bastard_," Shaz seethed, sipping her cocktail. "Can't I just bollock him myself?"

"I wish it were that easy," I said with a sigh. Think I was more certain than Mark was that Vile Richard had been a cheating fuckwit.

"And you don't want to tell Jude?" asked Tom. "For the love of God, why not?"

"Because I don't want to cause strife if what I _thought_ I saw wasn't what I _actually_ saw," said Mark. "But we can be prepared if things fall apart."

Tom seemed v. thoughtful, then nodded.

So we had our dinner and cocktail, and planned. If they split up, the flat is still hers, so is not physical support she needs. We agreed to emotional support shifts. Pizza, chocolate or wine on demand. Shoulder to cry on.

"You forgot one thing," Mark said.

"Oh?" I asked.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Never, ever, _ever_ say 'I told you so.'"

Solemnly we looked to one another, and nodded agreement. Thought immediately of first thought at the first sign of trouble with Vile Richard so many months ago, and was ashamed. Poor Mark and his cruel, cuckolding ex-wife—I'm sure he'd heard "I told you so" from more than one quarter. (His mum, at the very least.) It's always difficult when a relationship ends, worse so for a marriage (or so imagine), but when all of your friends had reservations—and you _know_ they had reservations—it must be even worse when they're proved right.

Reached over to place my hand over his, offering a smile. "Excellent advice." He looked up and smiled back.

**Tues, 12 Aug**

_8st 13 (oddly enough, stress eating counteracted by stress, results in loss—but at v. high cost), cigarettes 7 (necessary), alcohol units lost count (oh God necessary), number by which fuckwits in world have increased 1 (though was never not fuckwit, come to think)._

**11.26 am.** V. sad. Is last week that Mark will be at flat. House makeover is nearly complete. Mark is v. v. happy at the result but doesn't want me to see it yet. "I want it to be a surprise," he said. "After the wedding, after the honeymoon… I want you to move in for good after you're my wife."

Had to chuckle at that. Really is a traditionalist in his little Tory heart, even if he has been living with me, unmarried, for most of this year.

Every box of non-essential stuff is already there (books, boxes stored in closet, roller skates, summer clothing), and movers (!) will bring the rest of it over while am on honeymoon. Coordinating with friends who have keys. Have not contacted estate agent yet. Know this should be taken care of soon but do not have heart to start process to leave flat. Is silly, because of course am v. happy to be moving to Mark's after the wedding, but cannot help feeling this way all the same.

**12.45 pm.** Whilst having something to eat, remembered v. odd occurrence from last night: woke at the sound of Mark murmuring in his sleep. Do not recall him talking in sleep before. V. odd.

Better get to computer and get to working.

**1.05 pm.** Oh no. Had just sat down to computer when mobile went off. Was Jude, in the sheepiest sheep voice have ever heard.

"It's over!" she bleated. "He's left me!"

"Jude, _no_!" I said, shocked yet not shocked. Perhaps not more shocked that she had not been the one to do the leaving. "Are you sure?"

"I popped home for lunch, and his stuff is bloody well gone," she said, "not to mention the _bloody note_ he left on the dining table."

My heart sunk. "What did he say?"

She sighed. "That he wasn't happy, that he had made a big mistake, that he was going to live with… someone called Kiki."

Instantly wondered if this was the woman Mark had seen with Vile Richard. "Oh, God," I said. "_Kiki_. Jude, I'm so sorry."

She sobbed a little more, then said, "I feel like such a fool."

"I'm coming over," I announced.

"Oh, _God_," she wailed. "What will everyone think? Everyone told me—"

"Don't worry about that, Jude," I said soothingly. "No one wished you anything but the best. Give me a few to get ready. I'll come over."

So now am dressed and made up to go help Jude in time of need. Only hope he hasn't stolen anything. Bastard.

**3.00pm.** At Jude's. During the drive here, rang up Shaz and Tom to give them the dismal news. "It's happened. Richard's left her," I said. "I'm on my way now."

Rang Mark too, who said immediately after I gave him the news, "You're not driving while you're on the phone, are you?"

"No," I lied. "I don't know when I'll be home tonight. Or if I'll be home."

"I understand," he said gently. "She needs you right now." After a pause, he added, "I'm sorry for Jude."

"I know you are, Mark," I said.

"If he had doubts, he shouldn't have gone through with it," he said philosophically. Flash of panic—was this signalling his own doubt?—before he added, "So glad I have none."

"Me neither," I gushed. "Oh, I'm here, better get up there."

"Not driving, indeed," he said, laughing. "Oh. If she needs any help, legally, let me know. I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, Mark."

Went upstairs and knocked at door. Jude was a mess. Still dressed as if for work, with hair in face and mascara down cheeks. "I suppose he didn't think I'd find it until the evening," she said, as gave her a big, supportive hug. "Bastard."

"I know he is, I know," I said. Felt self turning into protective mama bear mode. Got v. angry on Jude's behalf. How dare that fuckwit hurt my friend like this? "First things first. Before we pull out the wine, you should ring work and tell them you're not coming back this afternoon. Next we find a locksmith to change the bloody locks."

She burst out in tears again. "I know you're right," she said. "You were all right."

"Shush with that talk," I said, patting her hair. "He'd fooled us all into thinking he'd changed. Perfectly understandable that you thought so, too." Tightened the squeeze before letting go. "And you're putting on trackie bottoms and an old sweatshirt," I said with a smile. "We can't get sloshed on wine and badmouth men with you in a suit."

"Not Mark," she said.

"Right," I said, nodding. "Of course not Mark."

"You're so lucky, Bridge," she said. "You may well have found the last of the good ones."

Could only smile. Starting to feel that way, myself.

As Jude rang up work, went into kitchen to scavenge for wine and comfort foods. Ended up ringing Shaz to tell her to bring mini-pizzas, ice cream, etc. as Jude's fridge and pantry is filled with _healthy_ food. Now am looking up locksmiths in directory, because if Vile Richard's going to leave, he's sure as hell not going to come back whenever he wants.

**11.56 pm.** Blorrygood wine best icecream bestest friends tom secondbestest man in univers.

**Weds, 13 Aug**

_9st (suppose is to be expected), cigarettes 4 (good), alcohol units 1 (saint), days until wedding 44 (not counting day of wedding)._

**9.37 am.** Head is clanging like church bell, but cannot regret last night, as it seems to have helped Jude immensely. In fact, Jude seemed a million times better, so much so that she decided to go to work as soon as the locksmith is done (of course, he showed up nice and early, ugh). Except for Jude, we are all hunched over at kitchen table cradling coffee as if elixir of life. Will head for home as soon as have eaten restorative pastry.

**Noon.** Home.

After calling work and changing clothes, Jude had come down to ring up for the locksmith, then we immediately cracked into first bottle of wine, lamenting that Jude's stores were low. Before could even get the mobile to make the call, Shaz and Tom turned up, bringing all manner of foods and, as if psychic, even more wine.

Made the pizzas, drank more wine, ate chocolates and ice cream (if had not been pissed probably would have been sick). Sat on sofa and surrounded Jude, both literally and figuratively. Started the BBC _Pride and Prejudice_ and catcalled at the screen every time Mr Darcy came on. Catcalls doubly loud in bathtub scene and after the dive in the lake. Stayed up far too late venting and ranting, and got her to laughing more than once.

Think need a little nap, though. Head is still pounding, Thankfully no work due this afternoon so can do so without guilt.

**6.27 pm.** Bugger.

**6.35 pm.** Woke at the feel of gentle fingertips on face. Of course was Mark, looking amused. Then he bent and gave me a nice little kiss. "Have a nice sleep?" he asked.

"Guess so," I said. At least headache has gone. "Didn't mean to sleep quite so long. Haven't given dinner a thought—and here I wanted to make something nice since it's your last week here…." Felt like total failure.

"It's okay," he said as if reading mind, then he chuckled. "I know exactly what'll make you feel better."

Realise only now he meant the pizza, which Mark is ringing for right now. Is okay. Time for more later.

**11.23 pm.** Lovely evening of pizza then snuggling then snogging then shag heaven. Cannot now sleep, though. Trying not to think of Jude's marriage's implosion as a bad omen to own wedding next month. Relationship with Mark is worlds apart from Jude's with Richard—so why is there such a heaviness in pit of stomach? Is ludicrous.

**11.37 pm.** Weird. As wrote the previous, Mark began mumbling in sleep again. Would swear he's talking about not wanting to go off to school. Ended with him saying, "No, Mummy, no." Heart-breaking. Dropped down to wrap him in my arms, at which he stirred and woke. "Bridget?" he asked.

"You were talking in your sleep," I said, then kissed him. "What were you dreaming about?"

"I… don't remember," he said, and seemed genuinely puzzled. "Did I wake you?"

"No," I admitted. "I couldn't sleep."

Of course, he asked why, and could not keep quiet. Told him my thoughts of Jude and Richard, and did it mean bad things for us?

"Oh, darling," he said. "I hate to say this, as much as it _pains_ me to say this, and as much as I would never say this to anyone but you… Richard leaving Jude seemed _inevitable_. He is, as you are wont to say, a fuckwit through and through. It's nothing to do with us." He smiled, and I believed him totally. "Now come on, we could both use the sleep."

V. g. advice.

**Thurs, 14 Aug**

_9st 1 (nononono!), cigarettes 5 (still below ration), alcohol units 3 (reasonable), number of unexpected phone calls 3._

**12.30 pm.** Saw Mark off this morning, did a little work, then went out to pick up a few groceries. Now am back, am struck how bare things look in here; all photos and knick-knacks down and packed, bookshelves empty of books and discs. Is going to be a v. strange few lonely weeks.

Ooh, telephone.

**1.30 pm.** Was brother Jamie. Surprised me so much did not at first recognise his voice. "Hey, Bridgey, how goes the wedding planning?" (Though should have guessed immediately as no one else calls me that.)

Told him it was going pleasingly well and surprisingly smoothly. "And how are you?" I asked.

"Well, very well," he said. Sounded really v. happy. "Had a question for you, actually. Is it too late to ask if I can bring a date?" Had fleeting horror thought of reunion with Becca, but then he added, "I've met someone new and you'll _love_ her. I told her all about you and she can't wait to meet you."

"Oh, really?" I asked, exceedingly intrigued as well as flattered. "Of _course_ you can bring her!"

Surely Mum and Elaine will not have unholy conniption at this addition, as is own son/future daughter-in-law's brother making request. Am looking forward to meeting Jamie's girlfriend, and to possibility of her actually not just acknowledging self's existence, but maybe even liking self too. Will call Mum now before slips mind. Maybe will luck out and reach Dad, instead.

**1.36 pm.** Phone call with Mum usually never short, but today is exception. Told her about Jamie asking to bring girlfriend to wedding. Knew instantly had stepped in it.

"Girlfriend?" she shrilled. "What's this about a girlfriend? Is it that same girl he was with before?" Don't think that Mum liked Becca much either, as Becca never ate her (non-vegan) cooking.

"No, someone new, I think," I said, realising did not even get name.

"Well," she said coolly, "if he's bringing her to your wedding it must be something. I'll get to the bottom of this, I can tell you."

And then, shockingly, she put the phone down. Hope Jamie is not angry with self.

**1.45 pm.** Just received SMS from Jamie: _Forgot I hadn't told mum about Marty—whoops!_

Then, a few seconds later: _Oh yeah, her name is Martina. Didn't say, did I?_

Most have heard from brother all year. Messaged back: _You didn't. V happy for you, sound happy._

Then he said: _Thanks. Happy for u, too._

Telephone again. Do not recognise number. Wonder who can be now?

**2.37 pm.** Oh my Christ alive, on phone was Mark's brother Peter.

"Thought I would give you a call, Mark told me you work from your flat," he said; v. posh sounding voice, swear could hear the family resemblance. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"No, of course not," I said, though felt a bit foolish for some reason. Should I be busier? "Are you still in Hong Kong? Oh, it must be very late there," I added.

"No, actually, not very," he said. "It's 10.20 pm. Eight hours ahead."

"Ah," I said, feeling silly, but only for a moment, then normal gabbling mode commenced (though sincerely meant): "I'm so glad that you'll be coming to the wedding! You and your wife both. I really can't wait! Do you need some help arranging things on this end?"

"No, not really," he said. "I was just calling to chat. I'm also looking forward to the wedding—to meeting you for the first time."

"Oh," I said, suddenly short for words. Had not expected Peter to be as chatty as Mark is not. Then I remembered what Mark had said. "Not the first time, though."

"Oh, it's not?" he asked, so I told him about the paddling pool.

"I was pretty young—I don't really remember it, myself. Just relying on what my mum tells me. And Mark."

He chuckled, and intonation was so like Mark it was eerie. Pictured ever-so-slightly younger version of Mark at the other end. "I do remember that, though I was pretty young, too," he said thoughtfully. "I hadn't realised you and the paddling pool prodigy were one in the same."

Couldn't help chuckling, either. "So, tell me about yourself and your wife," I said, feeling suddenly like my mother. "How is life in Hong Kong? Must be _very_ exciting."

So got to hear all about Peter and his wife, who are both doctors but work in vastly different fields (he's a surgeon and she's a psychologist). Sophie (his wife) is American, apparently, from Seattle, and they met in Hong Kong. They live in a nice apartment close to the hospital at which they both work. "It's really quite beautiful," Peter said. "Not at all like that shot you always see of the high-rise buildings that look like something out of _Blade Runner_. Maybe you and Mark can come and visit some time."

Experiences have had in southeast Asia have not, to date, been stellar, but surely visiting brother- and sister-in-law would be vast improvement over stinking hut, jail cell or similar. "I really like the sound of that."

After an extended but not dull conversation, finally put the phone down with a smile. In many ways he's v. like Mark, but much more easy-going and friendly. Lots of pressure on a first-born child, am told, though this has never been evident in own (older) brother.

Right. Should finish up the work due for morning. Poss. start dinner.

**6.10 pm.** Mark now home, especially smiley and affectionate. Questioned him with expression alone, and he said, "Spoke to Peter."

"Yes, he called here," I said.

"Yes, I know," he said with a broad grin. "He called me again after disconnecting with you, just to tell me how lovely and down-to-earth you are." Stepped forward, set attaché down, then took me into his arms. "Very good sign."

"Sign? What of?" I asked, though returned the embrace.

"Total familial harmony," he said. "Not that I doubted for a moment, because my mother and father already adore you. He was the last unanswered question." After a beat, he added, "He really didn't like my ex-wife. Should have been a sign."

"He didn't?"

"He refused to be best man," Mark said. "In fact, he didn't even come to the wedding. I should have taken his lead."

"Poor Mark," I said sympathetically, tightening my hold.

"All water under the bridge, so to speak," he said. "Lesson learnt, and better off for it, I'd say."

**10.05 pm.** Is the day for out-of-the-blue-though-not-unwelcome contacts. Had v. cosy dinner, which was not v. complicated: spag bol—pasta-making talents vastly improved in recent months, surely nothing to do with cohabitation with Mark—and red wine. Were finishing up, cuddling on sofa, savouring last few nights before things revert to the tedious logistics of living apart again, when the telephone began to go off.

Have been amply trained to let telephone go to answerphone, but was startled from cuddle when smooth American voice boomed out: "Hello… I hope it's not too late there, just looking for Miss Jones or Mr Darcy—" Scrambled off of the sofa, as instantly recognised Antonio's voice. Er. Eduardo's. Mark did not look offended at hasty departure, so he must have recognised it, too.

Swept up the receiver. "Hello!" I said brightly. "How nice to hear from you! How's everything? All set to come here?" (We invited them to the wedding.) "How's Los Angeles?"

He chuckled. "More or less how you left it, my dear. How are you?"

"Very busy," I said, then related how wedding prep was in final stages, how Mark was having the house done up, how he was going to move back before the wedding. "This weekend, actually," I said.

"You don't sound happy about it," he said.

"It's only temporary," I said, which more or less confirmed his suspicions. "He wants to make sure everything's in order and ready for me to move in after the honeymoon."

"That's lovely," he said. "So is Mark there? There was a something I wanted to ask him."

Did not even occur that he might have actually wanted to speak to Mark when calling. "Oh, yes of course," I said, walking to bring the phone over to him. "It's Eduardo," I said.

"Yes, I gathered," he said with a smirk, reaching out to take it from me. "Hello, yes, Mark here." He listened for a bit, nodded, then said, "Yes, of course I've got a moment. Hold on." He covered the receiver with his hand. "Case talk, darling. Sorry. We won't be on long."

Knew how to take a hint, so just nodded and found something to do: serve up bowls of ice cream for each of us. Sat down, gave Mark his bowl with a spoon, then sat with mine, reading through the newest _Marie Claire_. Tuned out the conversation until Mark said, "We're looking forward to seeing you all. Yes, you have a good night too. Goodbye." He pressed the end-call button, then set the phone on the table.

"Everything all sorted out?" I asked, setting the _Marie Claire_ to the side.

"Yep," Mark said, spooning up more of his ice cream. "Had a tricky question about a case related to the one with which I helped them," he explained. "By the way, Juliza's bringing Marisa and she is so excited to see London. And you, too."

Couldn't help chuckling. Sure was a v. exciting prospect to travel to a new country so far away from California, whereas a wedding's more or less a wedding wherever you go. (Though concede perhaps not in India or similar.)

Am now setting aside empty bowl to move closer to him again. Is penultimate night living at flat, after all.

**Fri, 28 Aug**

_9st 2 (fuck), cigarettes 7 (first time over ration in days), alcohol units 2 (reasonable), unexpected dinner guests 2._

**2.30 pm.** Busy day working on reading through another a voice-over script for Grant, that did not realise time had passed until phone rang. Was Mark. He does come over most nights for dinner but can't usually stay over. Has v. been lonely without him here, and wasn't supposed to come over tonight because of work, so was planning on having a night in with a v. down Shaz, who has been off with Simon for months now, and is starting to feel the dry spell will never end. (Jude may come later, after late meeting with lawyers and Richard about—awful word approaching—divorce.)

"Hi," I said, always happy to hear from Mark during day. "How's it going?"

"Everything's fine," he said. "Slight change of plans for this evening. Are you free, after all?"

"I've got Shaz coming over for dinner and a girls' night in," I said. "Why? What's going on?"

"Ah," he said. "I was wondering if I might bring a new acquaintance by with me to dinner. He's a client of one of the partners in chambers, newly in from America… He's a really nice guy, very friendly, and is eager to make friends in town while he's here."

"That's fine," I said, suppressing the urge to match-make in my mind, and failing. "It'll be nice. I can make more pasta, no big deal. Bring some wine?"

"It's a date, darling," he said. "See you around half six."

"Oh, wait, Mark," I said, before he could put the phone down. "Favour for me?"

"What?"

"Can we pretend that maybe I didn't know you're bringing this fellow over?" I asked. "I don't want Shaz thinking I'm trying to set her up."

He was silent for a moment. "Bridget, do not think about playing matchmaker," he said darkly.

"I'm not!" I said, though not v. convincingly. "If I were, though, I don't want her to think I knew anything in advance, that it was planned, that this is what the evening's all about."

"But that's _not_ what the evening's about."

"You see? We're on the same page."

He chuckled a little. "All right," he conceded. "I'll play dumb. But do you really think she's going to think I'm so inconsiderate as to bring home a stranger for dinner?"

"She probably won't give it a thought," I said. "She thinks all men are fuckwits now. Sadly, even you."

He chuckled. "I'll be sure to bring you a little something to beg forgiveness for the last minute change of plans, to quell any doubts."

We signed off. Should now pop to store and get more pasta and sauce. One jar surely not enough now.

**10.07 pm.** Excellent but v. puzzling night. Shaz came over about 5.00 pm, bringing deluxe Milk Tray and wine, which we opened right away. (Had to play into not-knowing-Mark's-bringing-someone story.) At about six, while putting on the water to boil for the pasta, the quantity of pasta portioned out raised red flags. "Why so much pasta?" Shaz asked. Was too buzzed on wine to think of a lie. Told her Mark might be by for dinner, but didn't mention the American guy he was bringing along.

"Oh," she said, visibly deflated.

"I'm sorry," I said.

Shaz shook her head. "Don't apologise," she said. "You're not likely to refuse dinner to your perfect-pants fiancé." She didn't say it in a sarcastic way at all, which was almost more heart-breaking than if she had. "Besides, he's a bit clueless at times but means well."

Tried not to bristle at the 'clueless' comment—though small part realised that he _had_ had his clueless moments in the past.

"And," she added with a glug of wine, "I happen to really like Mark."

"I'm glad," I said. All previous slights instantly forgiven.

At about half six, as predicted, heard key in the lock. "Bridget," Mark called out. From behind him, saw who must be the American client of Mark's partner in chambers. "Sorry to spring this on you, darling, but… this is Ryan Thompson. He's from California, and a client of Gavin's."

"Mark," I said, a hint of irritation in my voice, as we had previously planned. Heard Shaz groan a little.

"For you," Mark said, handing a little gift bag to me, "to make up for my inconsideration." He dropped and pecked a kiss onto my cheek. "Ryan, this is Bridget, my fiancée, and Sharon, her friend. Well, and my friend, too." At this Sharon offered a little smile.

Thinking of our stay in California, I asked him, "So, Ryan, how close to Los Angeles do you live?"

Ryan chuckled. "Silicon Valley, actually," he said; he had a nice voice, v. pleasant. "California's a big state."

Visions of glittering metallic mountains filled head, though was sure that couldn't be possible. "Where's that?"

"Northern part of the state," he said. "Up near San Jose. San Francisco. It's called that because of all of the technology companies."

"Oh! I know where that is," I said proudly, beaming to Mark. He smiled back. Then the timer went off in kitchen so excused self to get boiling pot off of the hob. "I'll just get the sauce warmed and we can eat. Want to get the wine, Mark?"

"Looks like you're already started in on that," Mark quipped. "But I'll give you a hand all the same."

Mark helped me serve up plates of food, carried the cheese, etc., and when we returned to the table for good it was to a budding conversation between Shaz and Ryan. It was obvious he had just asked her what she did for a living, and she was explaining in a sort of strangely quiet manner that she was a journalist.

"Oh really?" he asked. "Anything I might have read?"

"I doubt it," she said. "Not exactly _Time_ magazine or the like."

Behind his rather sizeable specs, he really was a decent-looking fellow, not the sort of man who would cause all conversation to stop and all women to throw themselves at him as he came in the room, but nice-looking all the same. He had short blond hair and greenish eyes and wasn't terribly tall—possibly Shaz's height, or even shorter—but he was looking at her like he thought she might be a challenge, that he liked a challenge. "Try me."

So she told him her paper's name, and for a split-second thought he would rise up and proclaim that yes, he had heard of her local paper and had heard of her and that they were meant to be. But no, he hadn't heard of it. Not surprising. Have lived in London for years and would not have known of it but for her.

"So what is it that you do, Ryan?" I asked, covering the embarrassment of the moment (think Shaz had hoped he might have known her work).

"The internet," he said. "There's a boom on right now, and we think it's only going to get bigger in the future."

"Really?" asked Shaz. "But there's nothing…" she moved her hands around, trying to find the right word. "…_tangible_ about the internet."

"Sure there is. Hardware, software, content for sites… the internet's going to be become more and more integral to modern life," said Ryan. He went on, though honestly, do not know half of what he was talking about, but Shaz did. "Obviously, it's not going to boom forever," Ryan concluded. "I'm not going to be stupid about it. But I don't think the internet's going to go away."

Could tell that Shaz was intrigued. In fact, as he spoke, there was almost a certain… respect in Shaz's eyes. "So what brings you to England," Shaz asked, "talking with the likes of Gav the barrister?"

"Just making sure my 't's are crossed and the 'i's are dotted for possible expansion to the UK," he said. "The beauty of the internet is that it's not limited to our manmade geographical boundaries, but those boundaries do still come with laws to consider. And I could have done it with proxies over such long distance, but I'm a hands-on sort of guy."

Don't know if Mark or Ryan saw it happen but at that statement, Shaz's brow lifted ever so slightly.

After we finished our dinner, Ryan offered to clear the table, and to my surprise, Shaz offered to help him. Mark leaned towards me. "They seem to be hitting it off after all, aren't they?"

Promised self would not say 'told you so' any more, so merely smiled. Watched them in the kitchen as they washed then rinsed off the plates and stacked them off to the side of the sink to dry. He kept leaning close to talk, and she kept smiling and leaning close to reply.

"I predict," I said, "that you and I will be closing the evening alone."

"I'm going to state for the record," retorted Mark, "that I have no objection to having you all to myself."

Sure enough, after they finished the last of the kitchen tidying, Shaz called me aside. "Do you mind if I… you know, postpone our girls' night?" she asked, her voice low. "Ryan's asked me out for a coffee and… I'd really like to."

"No, I don't mind at all," I said brightly.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely sure!" I said. "Go right ahead."

"Thanks," she said. Her voice dropped even more conspiratorially. "You know, if this _was_ a setup, I don't even care now. He seems really nice."

So now they have gone, and there is a present from Mark have yet to open.

**10.20 pm.** Belgian chocolates. What Milk Tray? Must now thank Mark. Properly.


	6. Chapter 6 and story notes

**Bridget Jones: A Brand New Start**

By S. Faith, © 2014-2015

Words: 50,000 in 6 chapters  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit<span>: See Chapter 1.

Story notes at the end of this chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

**Fri, 18 Sept**

_8st 13 (must hold steady), cigarettes 5 (practically a saint), alcohol units 3 (reasonable), days until wedding 7 (not counting day of wedding itself)._

**10.27 am.** Big day. Not THE Big Day, obviously, which is next weekend. Peter and wife Sophie arrive from Hong Kong. They are staying with Mark, which leaves me feeling a bit peevish as they are living in made-over house before self. But is silly to have such feelings, and would never say so to Mark. Peter is family, after all, who he hasn't seen for quite a few years.

Mark's gone to get them. Their plane touches down soon, but they will want to settle in at the house, maybe have a lie down until tonight. We are all having dinner together later. Mark's parents were supposed to have come but Malcolm's feeling under the weather, so in order for them to be in tip-top shape for the wedding they're not making the drive. Peter and Sophie will be going up there after the weekend, anyway, in preparation for the wedding.

Going to be a busy week. Tomorrow night is hen night arranged by Magda with (do dearly hope) help from Shaz and Jude. Have suggested they invite Sophie as only seems right for future sister-in-law. Mark is doing a stag night though he doesn't want to do the usual drinks and strippers. Not really his thing. Wonder what his brother has planned.

In meantime, will get all caught up on work then get ready for dinner. Sure will be an appropriately posh place.

**10.36pm.** Oh dear. Night did not go quite as expected. Mark came for me at about 6.00 pm, looking a bit sullen and his posture was stiff. Asked him what was wrong but he shook his head. "Come, or we'll be late," was all he said.

Ride to restaurant was short and Mark v. quiet still. Was one we had not been to before but it was indeed posh. Peter and Sophie were already there, we were told, waiting at the table.

Peter looked about as had expected. Definitely saw the resemblance to Mark, handsome in his own way. Almost as tall, hair just as dark, though lighter eyes. His wife's a pretty woman. Short dark hair, brown eyes, fairish skin, nice (if reluctant) smile. After Mark introduced me to her (such strange social rituals we partake in), Peter then introduced her to me: "Bridget, this is my wife."

Said to her with absolute sincerity, "How lovely it is to meet you at last, Sophie."

Unfortunately, her first words to me were, "Actually, it's Sophi_a_." Emphasis on the final A, and spoken quietly with the sort of restrained impatience that told of having made the correction a hundred times before.

Mark went kind of stony, so could only apologise: "So sorry, I must have misheard and no one's yet corrected me."

"Until now," Mark added.

Wanted to ask Mark if he had known we'd been fucking up her name all this time, but thought it best to ask later; assumed he must have known since their own wedding was just the June before last. (More on that in a bit.)

Anyway. Was not off to the best start, so endeavoured to make the most of it. "So you're from Seattle," I said. "Home of the grunge youth movement and good coffee, I hear. How exciting!"

"I wouldn't really know anything about grunge youth," she said, seemingly perplexed. Came off a bit snooty, to be honest. Not best of first impressions, so decided to change gears.

"So did you have a nice flight?" I asked. "I've only been to Thailand before and that was long enough."

"Almost twelve hours," supplied Peter. "But it was very comfortable."

"First class, I trust," said Mark.

"Of course," said Sophie. SophiA. "Twelve hours in coach would have been a complete nightmare."

She was of course correct—had done coach to Thailand—but something about the way she said it seemed so… well. Classist. Hm.

Peter seemed to notice we were flailing helplessly so he talked about his wife a bit, giving a bit of background leading up to how they met. "Her mother came from Hong Kong as a girl," he said. "It's what drew Soph to Hong Kong in the first place. Fortunately for me."

She smiled that same reserved smile again and reached to place her hand over Peter's, which was, at least, a positive sign.

"How did you meet?" Sophia asked. "I understand you, Mark, are a barrister, and that you—" Gestured towards me. "—do _something_ in television. How on earth did your paths ever cross, with such widely disparate careers?"

Found it hard to believe that Peter had not explained our shared past to his wife, so took a moment to do so, skimming only v. lightly over the famed paddling pool incident. Was frankly not v. pleased with insinuation that Mark and self were in career orbits that never should have intersected.

"Oh, that's rather sweet," she said with (I swear) Lady Catherine de Bourgh levels of condescension.

"It's too bad Mark was so involved in such a big case," Peter said suddenly. "We would have loved to have met you sooner at our own wedding."

This was a surprise, as a.) had assumed he had been to his own brother's wedding and b.) they had no idea we had been split up during that time. Shot a glance to Mark, who gave me the 'I'll explain later' look.

Between all of this conversation was the ordering then the arrival of our dinner, which consisted of a vast array of seafood dishes. Everything I tried was v.g.—tried the prawn starter, and Mark and I swapped bits of our dishes, my _scoglio_ (seafood pasta) and his _cioppino_ (seafood stew)—but Sophia could only lament that there was no better seafood in the world than in the Pacific Northwest. Realised that dinner had been one comparison after another by her. Better wine there. Better coffee. Better everything.

"I hear that San Francisco has some of the best seafood there is," Mark said abruptly. Have never known him to have any particular opinion on seafood before. "In fact, I understand that this dish—" He pointed towards the _cioppino_. "—originated there. And surely there's a thriving seafood market in Hong Kong."

"Of course there is," she said with an air of resignation. Maybe just tired? "Believe me, I've had ample opportunity to sample from many places. There is still just no comparison."

Fortunately, with the advent of dessert, there were no further seafood options, and thus no further opportunity for debate. Took advantage of the mountain-high tiramisu and a lovely little glass of dessert wine. Mark went with the _panna cotta_ (custard-y; surprised he had dessert at all, to be honest) and Peter went for the _zabaglione_ (flan-y)… while Sophia ordered a slice of something called _ciambellone_, which frankly looked like a slice of Bundt cake, only somehow less appealing. Suppose we all have different tastes, but she seemed v. much the odd girl out.

After we were through and were gearing up to leave the restaurant, Peter was all smiles and gave me a brotherly hug and peck on the cheek. "We had such a lovely time with you both tonight," he said. "Didn't we, darling?" (Peter's use of this term of endearment made me felt oddly possessive of it, though know is used all over the world.)

"Very much so," Sophia said, smiling again in that reserved way. "Oh, Bridget, I believe I'll see you tomorrow night?"

Fuck. Forgot she was coming to hen night. Overly brightly, I said, "Yes, of course! _So_ looking forward!"

We finished saying our goodnights then Mark escorted self to car in order to drop me home (wished he could stay over, but would have been v. rude to his guests). He seemed v. quiet, much as he had been all night. As we got on our way, remembered I'd wanted to ask him about a few things, so I did.

"Mark," I began, "why did we think her name was Sophie, and how had no one corrected us before now?"

"I think my mother had got it wrong," he said. "Maybe she just forgot, or had heard but misremembered."

"But you picked them up at Heathrow," I said. "You spent the afternoon with them. It never came up?"

"Peter always just called her 'Soph' or 'darling'," he said. "Believe me, I never would have let you put your foot in it. If I did know it, I forgot." (This surprised me, since he usually doesn't forget things like that.) "And the time around their wedding…" He trailed off.

"So why _didn't_ you go to their wedding?"

Thought maybe he'd say he was too crushed with a broken heart over our (temporary-but-didn't-know-it-at-the-time) split, but the actual reason was far more mundane:

"This is embarrassing," he confessed, "and you must never tell them, but I… forgot it was oncoming."

"You _forgot_?" I asked, incredulous, fighting back laughter.

He smiled too, then chuckled. "I was so wrapped up in you and me, first blush of romance," he said; surely he was tinting pink, "and then I took a case just after… well, to immerse myself in work, and then when my mother reminded me I could not back out."

We drew up to my building, and he put the car in park. "I hate to say this," Mark said, "and I would never say this to Peter, but… I don't like her much."

Grudgingly had to agree. "Maybe she'll grow on us, once we get to know her better," I said.

He took my face in his hand. "Always trying to see the silver lining," he said softly. "I love that about you." He gave me a little kiss. "And you have to take her along on your hen night. I'm sorry, darling."

"It'll be fine," I said. "Besides! There'll be a lot of drinking."

**Sun, 20 Sept**

_8st 13 (miracle given intake last night), cigarettes 2 (poss. nicotine overdose last night), alcohol units 1 (polar opposite to last night), days left as singleton 6._

**12.30 pm.** Hangover so bad, difficult to sit up. Herculean effort, actually. But, was v. g. day yesterday.

Was fetched for hen night just after half five in the evening. Standing on the street outside my building was Magda, Shaz, Jude, Tom (honorary hen), Woney, Tina, Talitha, Perpetua (!), Patchouli (!) and Sophi_a_. Perhaps in honour of now-legendary Tarts & Vicars misfire, they were all wearing bunny ears, and with a huge grin, Magda handed me the bunny ears that were mine, complete with mini-veil.

Was a beautiful night with promise of wonderful weather, so the plan was to pub crawl around the neighbourhood on a sort of boozy scavenger hunt, where the drink has to match the criterion provided by drinks mistress Shaz. The first stop was just 'round the corner.

"All right, ladies," said Shaz as we entered—all heads turned as we came in, and expressions were equal measure of amused and annoyed. "First on our list is 'red'."

Mind went instantly to Bloody Marys. Not that was a complaint. A bloody one sounded v. g. We got some snacky food too, which we shared amongst us all. Not sure now if had one drink there, or two, but soon we were on the move again. Next stop: vodka.

Was on a roll. Got vodka martini. More starters. Is miracle did not vomit all over hen party.

Was so good to see and talk to Tina, who has been abroad until recently. Rarely see Patchouli outside of work, but we are allies in our mutual antagonist, the maniacal (though mostly recovered) Richard Finch. At least he is no longer my boss. And was nice to see Perpetua again—think of our rocky start and how it has transformed into a sort of respect. We are not best of friends, but we are friendly enough.

Another pub, another requirement ('blue'). Noticed that though quiet, Sophia was keeping up with the lot of us, and as we moved on again, could see the frosty shell beginning to shatter.

"Hey," I said, making the extra effort, as am sure she felt a bit like the odd one out—she only knew me, and we'd only met the night before. "I'm glad you were able to come out with us, I really am."

"I'm glad too," she said, and this time when she smiled it was really full and v. sincere. "I confess I was a bit nervous coming to London. I don't know anyone here at all. Well, except for you and Mark, now."

"Have you ever been here before?" I asked.

"Actually, no," she said, "but I'm really starting to like it. Mark has an amazing house! It's gorgeous, and so w—" Her hand flew up to clamp over her mouth. "Oh, but it's supposed to be a surprise to you!"

Laughed out loud—too loud as was pretty pissed by then—and said, "It's okay, it still is. A surprise, I mean." (Though was concerned that 'w' might mean 'white'. Hope not as have had enough of white rooms with white chairs for one lifetime. Hope instead it means 'wonderful'.)

By the time we made it to the last pub on the crawl—conveniently, the pub on the ground floor of my building—we were mostly all stumbling drunk. Sophia had turned into quite the chatterbox now the ice had been broken, and she was funny and charming. Could see what Mark's brother could see in her. Most of the party had pre-arranged minicabs, but Sophia had not, so when the lot of them had gone off, said to her, "Just crash with me."

Like pissed sherpas we hiked up to my flat and promptly collapsed onto my furniture, the room spinning like a top. At some point a mobile began to ring, and it took us some time to figure out it was Sophia's. Eventually answered it but she had trouble communicating with Peter. Perhaps was bad connection. Managed to communicate that she would be staying with me. Then own mobile began to ring, which promptly answered, though Mark couldn't seem to understand me either.

"Bridget, what on earth is going on?" he asked, concern in his voice. Told him that it was okay, that Sophia would be staying the night at the flat, and not to worry.

Woke this morning (well, afternoon) to find Mark and his brother standing over our prone forms, which were on the sofa where we had come to rest, still dressed up from the night before, bunny ears and all (miraculous even if precariously askew). They were both grinning.

"Morning," said Mark.

Brought hand to head. "Shhh," I admonished against the noise.

So after bringing something for the pain, they are now fixing coffee and something for us to eat.

**1.17 pm**. After hangover / headache subsided, managed to converse with Mark and Peter. It soon came out that the both of us were totally incoherent on the phone. "The only thing we could figure out," said Mark, "was that Sophia was at your flat, so we didn't worry too much."

"Sorry," Sophia said.

"Oh, heavens, don't apologise," said Peter. "Sounds like you had a marvellous time, and I'm glad for that."

"I did have a _great_ time," she said, still rubbing her forehead, then removing the bunny ears from her head. Prompted self to do same. "Don't think I ever drank that much, even at college."

Realised we did have a great time. Had warmed greatly to Sophia. Then had a brainstorm.

"Why don't we have an early dinner? A late lunch? Before you do your drive north, I mean."

Mark looked dumbfounded. Hoped v. much that his brother did not notice (Sophia did not know Mark well enough to know his version of 'dumbfounded'). "That's a marvellous idea," said Sophia.

Now Mark looked confused, but said only, "Why don't I take you two back to the house, then we can come back for you, darling." The latter part, obviously, was addressed to me. "Go on and head downstairs, I'll catch up with you in a moment at the car."

Once they had departed, Mark fixed a curious gaze on self. "What's going on?"

"We were so wrong about Sophia," I said. "She was just feeling shy, not knowing us, or anyone in town. We had a lovely night."

He still looked dubious. "Are you sure we were wrong," he began delicately, "or was it that you're such a generous, nice person who happened to be very drunk?"

Pursed lips at him.

At this he chuckled a little. "Sorry to laugh. That's quite an expression. And sorry, too, to be so sceptical. It just seems like such a volte-face."

"Fair point," I said. "But I think that tonight might change your mind."

With that he kissed me goodbye, and left the flat to go and take them back to the house—a v. nice way of saying, "Let me give you time to freshen up," which truly needed to do. Must now take shower and get made up before Mark turns back up and scolds self for lolling about.

**10.30 pm.** Amazing night with Peter and Sophia. Suspect that once Sophia realised we (she and I) had much in common, she was better able to understand Mark's personality and the differences between him and Peter. Mark v. quickly saw the light and that I'd been right. The atmosphere compared to the one from Friday night's dinner was the difference between night and day.

Now they are on the way to Huntingdon to spend time with Malcolm and Elaine. Have realised that will soon be last night in flat, and am v. sad. Mark is staying tonight and every night until we leave to go north on Thursday (me to The Gables, and Mark to Huntingdon). Everything will soon be such a whirlwind: brother's arrival to Grafton Underwood, the arrival of LA friends, rehearsal dinners….

Mark assures me that everyone who's coming has secured accommodation and not to worry about it. Feeling irrationally guilty that so many are coming so far—Hong Kong! LA! Manchester!—just for me. Well, for us. By same token, though, is v. flattering.

**Fri, 25 Sept**

_8st 12 (God exists and He clearly loves me), cigarettes 8 (understandable), alcohol units 2 (does not pay to get too pissed—hungover bride v. bad), hours left of singletondom v. few._

**10.30 am.** Been unbelievably busy, rare moment of calm before the storm returns. Coffee and chocolate croissant because not even self can put on a stone overnight. Will do best to recap past few days.

Monday brought the arrival of the friends from LA. Feels simultaneously like was just yesterday that saw them last, yet also like years. They arrived in the wee hours and insisted we did not need to pick them up, so we arranged to have dinner together their first evening here.

Everyone looks much as they did. Once at the restaurant, greeted Soledad with a bright smile; she surprised me with great big warm hug. "How happy you look, both of you," she said. Mario, her husband, had come too. His smile and happy personality filled the whole restaurant.

Ron's hair was shorter than it used to be—possible he'd gotten a cut just for the occasion?—and while was v. glad he was still with Rosie, was sad she'd been unable to come to London and to the wedding. Like her v. much.

Eduardo looked as handsome and as dashing as ever, with those dark curls and warm eyes. Think he will be v. popular with the single ladies. Probably even the single men. (Actually, Ed is rather Tom's type—looking forward to seeing the little floating hearts in Tom's eyes.)

Last but not least, Juliza with her darling daughter Marisa. Juliza looks fantastic, v. happy, with immaculate hair (and, I swear, a foot more of it). Marisa seems to have really bloomed, too.

Dinner was fantastic. In trying to find a place to take them, stumbled (online!) upon the perfect restaurant, a newish place that prides itself on offering a sort of 'California cuisine' and that has reasonably good reviews from both locals and former Californians alike. Decided on restaurant because could not do at Mark's house, what with house re-do supposed to be a surprise for self post-wedding. Anyone who saw all of us together, drinking, talking and laughing, they probably thought we were old friends going back for years and years.

Things got a little racy when Eduardo (with a few drinks in him) began to tease Mark not about the wedding, but the honeymoon. "Eh, Mark," he said in a slightly too-loud voice with a wink, "you need pointers for your honeymoon, you come to me, all right?"

Mark went scarlet and commented only that everything was under control in that area. Attempting to support him, I blurted out, "Yes, yes, I can vouch for that totally." Sent the whole table into fits of laughter and made Mark go even redder.

This makes it seem like it was an awkward, embarrassing evening, and it was anything but. Had such a great time—so hard to believe that a year ago had not even met them yet. Was a bit odd to say goodnight, knowing we would probably next see them on the day of the wedding. Wish I had more free time to do touristy things with Marisa (and Juliza), but at least was able to give suggestions for off-the-beaten (tourist) path.

Tuesday meant was time to meet the girls to pick up dresses. Tried on gown one last time to make sure was not weirdly bulging or that there were no bits of unsightly flesh sticking out, but all is the same, which is nothing short of miraculous. Saw girls trying to fight sappy tears when saw me in it, but in the end, none of us could fight urge to cry. Thank heavens had changed out of dress before all of the wet, snotty bawling began.

Afterwards, needed the consolation of a cocktail, so we went to Café Rouge and had a round of Bloody Marys (seems ideal mid-afternoon cocktail when compared to gin and tonic or similar) and some starters. Kept it festive; after all, it is v. happy occasion and not in fact funeral for singleton status.

Wednesday night was rough, as was last day (and night) in flat. As we packed the last straggling bits of stuff into boxes, there were more tears but thankfully also plenty of cuddles and snuggles. Last shag in singleton bed, too, but writing that out makes it seem cheap and crass. It was all v. wonderful and full of love and security. Not a shred of doubt, not one, about choosing to marry Mark Darcy.

Thursday (yesterday) was tougher than Wednesday in some ways. Morning came too soon but had to prise self (and Mark) out of bed since cleaners were coming to go over the place, and the rest of my things went into a van to go to Mark's (Mark went with them there once van was packed up). Bizarrely thinking of how much will hate unpacking it all, but all of the fuss of moving surely going to be well worth it.

With packed suitcase (for wedding & beyond), well-camouflaged wedding dress (so Mark couldn't see) and other wedding paraphernalia securely stowed into boot, we made the drive north after dinner. He brought my things in from the boot, then we said goodnight. "See you tomorrow," he said softly, then kissed me.

Shortly after got in, brother and girlfriend Marty turned up from Manchester, so got to meet her. Kind and v. gorgeous, with the best features of an Irish mum and an Ethiopian dad. Liked her a lot. Far more than Becca. Mum is making Jamie sleep in Granny's old room (which he hates being in) and has given Marty his bedroom. Is all v. ridiculous, but is, after all, Mum. (Suspect Jamie will sneak out anyway. Mum will be none the wiser.)

Am now being beckoned to start getting ready. Is rehearsal at church and then a dinner afterwards for our two families and the wedding party.

**9.55 pm.** Home from manicures, rehearsal and dinner.

Shortly after prev. entry, after getting made up and dressed, we all of us girls went for manicures in Kettering. (Jude, Shaz, Magda, Jeremy et al. drove down this morning and met them there at the spa; Jeremy and sprogs taking it easy in hotel room watching cartoons.) Was a bit sceptical (was recommendation of Mum's) but they did a fantastic job, pale pearlescent pink and pretty much perfect. Should not have doubted; Mum would never have wanted to ruin only daughter's wedding day to perfect son-in-law candidate.

The rehearsal drove home how real this all is. Tomorrow. TOMORROW! Everything went smoothly (mostly) at the church. Constance decided that she wanted to be the ring bearer. We all feared that this would cause an uproar with her brother, but fortunately, Harry eagerly took to the idea of throwing flower petals on the aisle in front of us. Fortunately, the smallest of Magda's brood is too young to feel left out of anything.

Dinner was held at a nice restaurant in Kettering. Gave the wedding party their thank-you gifts, ate fantastic roast meal with veg and potato, didn't even drink too much. Mark walked self to the door again. While it was very sweet, we were both oddly shy and awkward. In a sense, it felt like he was taking self home after a first date. Not in a bad way.

"Well," he said as we stood there on the front porch, face to face, "you should get inside. Try to get to bed early. Busy day tomorrow." He kissed me goodnight, told me he loved me (told him I loved him too, obvs.), stroked my face tenderly, then walked back down the path to the car. Watched him leave one last time as singleton.

Now should take his advice as will be v. busy day indeed. Wedding at 1.00 pm (sharp, as my mum continues to remind me). Preparation to begin well in advance: hair, makeup, etc. so had better get self a cup of herbal tea, then into bed to attempt to sleep.

**Sat, 26 Sept (Wedding Day)**

_8st 12 (have won self's wedding day), cigarettes 5 (no time to smoke), alcohol units 5 (after ceremony), wedding ceremonies 1._

**6.30 am.** Suddenly woken from dead sleep and unable to get back to it. Might as well get up and make coffee and something to eat for self.

**7.25 am.** When went downstairs, after coffee was on, Dad came downstairs. "Morning, pumpkin," he said, then unexpectedly gave me a big hug. Could hear the emotion in his voice. "Going to be a good day. It is."

"Of course it is," I said, hugging him back. "I've imagined this day since I was a little girl." It was true, though had imagined slightly more unrealistic wedding day goals, along the lines of Cinderella with magic pumpkin, glass slippers, gigantic pouf dress, etc.; actual day would surpass impossible childhood fantasies, or so that was the hope.

"I remember," he said almost wistfully. He pulled away and began to prepare himself a cup of coffee. "I don't have to tell you that marriage beyond the big day isn't Utopia."

"No, Dad, I know."

"I suppose you do," he said light-heartedly, "after watching your mother and me."

"Oh, Dad," I said, with a laugh. "Besides, Mark and I lived together in LA for all those months," I added.

"That's very true," he said with a smile. "I suppose all of the blinders are off by this point." He went serious. "He still treats you like a queen."

Was more of a statement than a question, but answered anyway. "Yes, Dad, he does."

"Doesn't take you for granted."

"No, Dad," I said without hesitation. "He really doesn't."

He looked at me again, his mouth crooked up with a little smile. "Doesn't make you do all of the cooking and washing up."

"He pulls his weight," I said, thinking of all of the times we had cooked together, done our laundry together (or, more accurately, gathered his suits to the cleaners and did the rest in the washer).

"Good," he said with finality. "I don't have to make a scene today." Looked to him to catch him winking at me. Went to him with another laugh and hugged him again.

Mum came down just then. "What's this about a scene, then?" she asked.

"There won't be one," Dad said. "Everything will be perfect. Right?"

Girls will be here soon. Will all of us get all done up, dressed, then go to the church. Time to sign off in diary for last time as singleton.

**11.38 pm.** The deed is done. Am newly married woman!

Girls (Jude, Shaz, Magda) came to the house just after eight with dresses in tow. Had decided to do hair up and off of neck with lots of Kirby grips, curling rod and hairspray. Shaz had practised helping self a few times, so there were no surprises, and tiara/veil looked wonderful with it. Jude helped with eyeliner and shadow, and it was just perfect, though had no illusions it would remain so.

After fixing the pearls (earring and necklace) into place, Mum and the girls delicately helped to get the veil and the tiara on. They pinned the veil in just behind tiara so that part of it could be brought over face once at church. Left putting the dress on until the very last minute so as to avoid spilling coffee or similar on, but once put it on… felt like a queen, esp. with the tiara. Was smart and got low kitten-type heels, but they too are Cinderella-esque (though not glass slippers as that would be disaster waiting to happen).

Must pause for a moment and say how wonderful the girls and Mum looked, v. classy, v. elegant. Mum's dress is pale blue with sparkly crystals sewn on the lower hem, with a matching pillbox hat. She looked the picture of sophistication, and with the way my dad looked at her, he certainly seemed v. pleased and proud at how beautiful she looked.

While we were putting on finishing touches, a car (the boys) came by to pick up Dad so he could be with them to help with ushering duties, etc. Expect Mark and Peter followed up in Mark's own car closer to time of ceremony.

There was a momentary panic as the sky clouded over—we all feared it would begin to rain as it seems to have rained most of the night, and thus rain on us—but the clouds passed and the sun returned just as we left for the church.

Mum and the girls rode in Jude's car, following self in hired car, a v. luxurious silver Bentley driven by Mark's faithful driver, Henry. Was v. short ride, but even still Mum made v. sure we left on time so as not to be late—as being late would give Mark palpitations—and was v. glad for her herding us, as by this point had begun to lose all track of time and sense of reality.

Thanks to muddy road conditions we got there perhaps a minute or two late. Jude, Shaz, and Mum headed straight out of their car and through front of the church as we'd been told to do. Waited for door to open, then got up and out of car with Magda's help. She gave me a breath mint as was feeling quite thirsty; mouth was v. dry, and had been afraid that if had even tiniest drink of water, would desperately need loo at worst time. Could have been worse, though, such as massive pouf dress in loo. Anyway. Heard music start up. Felt heart start to beat faster. She helped me up the stairs to where my dad was waiting to escort me up the aisle to where Mark was waiting. "You look great," Magda said. "You'll _be_ great." Then she ran over to where Peter was waiting to escort her up the aisle.

Turned to my dad. "Showtime," he said with a happy-teary smile.

Learnt later that the procession before me went wonderfully, with Harry gleefully throwing flower petals, Constance solemnly carrying the pillow with the ring, Jude and Jeremy, Tom and Shaz, then Peter and Magda. The moment Dad and I stepped forward, though, my own focus was pinpoint and on Mark, who looked nervous and happy and _so_ incredibly handsome in his waistcoat and morning suit, top hat at his side under his arm. From the look on his face, he seemed v. pleased with how self's own wedding attire had panned out.

Unsurprising to anyone, the vicar was wearing his favourite apricot vestments. Did not clash with the blue of the wedding party, so was not too fussed. He was so pleased that his prediction so long ago at the Ruby Wedding had come to be. During the procession, also spotted Una and Geoffrey, who seemed very pleased and teary, too.

Everything went just as rehearsed, and thank goodness for rehearsal as knew what was expected next without having to think to much about it. We had decided to stick to traditional vows as could honestly not see Mark pouring his heart out to me in front of everyone. Anyway, the words felt comfortable and right (and not a hint of 'obey' in sight).

Constance almost didn't hand over the ring, which was momentarily funny, but in the end, the rings were exchanged. Mark lifted the edge of the veil, looking at me with admiration and love like had never seen, before sealing the deal with a kiss.

The tiny church erupted with cheers.

Can barely remember Jamie's or Sophia's readings, though am told they did v. well. Thought only of Mark beside self, and the ring on my finger. We signed as needed (as did Magda and Peter as our witnesses), then the vicar gave a final prayer before we made our grand exit into the foyer. With the wedding party serving as buffer between us and the exiting congregation, it was our first moment alone that day.

"Hi," I said, as he took me into his arms.

"Hi," he said, then stole a quick kiss.

"Husband," I said breathlessly, almost in disbelief.

"Wife," he said matter-of-factly, in response. "Hmm, yes, that'll do nicely."

Ooh, more later. Is, after all, wedding night and must prepare self accordingly.

**Wed, 30 Sept**

_8st 12 (excess of food burnt off by excess of shag heaven), cigarettes 4 (would smoke post-shag but Mark dislikes), alcohol units 6 (all champagne), husbands injured in wedding night mishap 1, days as newlywed 5._

**10.30 am.** Refuse to feel bad about embarking so enthusiastically on honeymoon that diary has been neglected. Honeymoon is a charming, rustic cottage in the Lake District, secluded and delightful, and exactly what we needed. Honeymoon not really about sightseeing, anyway. Will get to Paris some other day.

However, do need to put down events while they are fresh in mind. Mark is resting anyway. He needs it.

After exiting the church (with requisite tossing of rice), we posed for some photos, then loaded ourselves into the Bentley for the reception, which was hosted at the Darcys in Huntingdon. They offered their spacious garden and were pleased to do so, though we were not taking any chances and hired a huge marquee to fit everyone underneath should the weather decide not to cooperate. The reception followed immediately, as what were all of our guests to do between ceremony and reception out there in the country?

Have heard that some brides change dresses for reception, but wanted to wear my dress for all it was worth. Dress was gorgeous and comfortable and _extremely_ flattering, as evidenced by the way Mark kept his hand on my waist, kept touching me (could also be that he was a bit shag-starved, as we had not really had much chance for intimacy since we'd departed the flat). Also left on tiara and gloves (until eating), but did remove the veil. It all felt v. Princess Grace.

Did take a breather in a sitting room that Elaine had set up for our use, to put our feet up and relax before the guests arrived in full. Mark sat in there with me, his hat again by his side—God, did he look delectable, with that hat and cravat and waistcoat; think self was a bit shag-starved too—and massaged my feet a bit.

Was not a formal lunch or dinner but series of starters then buffet items. We did have a head table and we did do the requisite best man toasts and reading the telegrams and other messages from those who couldn't be with us that day. Had dance with Dad. Mark danced with his mum. Even danced with Uncle Geoffrey, who was surprisingly the perfect gentleman for the first time in life.

"I've known you since you were a little girl," he'd begun, as per usual, "and I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you end up with Mark. So very pleased." Was too stunned to respond. "I know he's had a tough time of it, so it's nice to see the two of you find each other and be so happy." Could not account for what had come over him. Could only think that he was maybe getting older, maybe a bit more sentimental and less pervy. (Would be disproved later when he made to grab bottom. Perhaps he was just more sober when it was earlier in the evening.)

Noticed right away that Eduardo seemed to be paying Jude a great deal of attention. Knew that he was a bit of a charmer and also knew Jude was still reeling from the split with Vile Richard. However, needn't have worried; he asked me for a dance and told me how much he liked Jude. "She seems very caring, very lovely, but a bit down," he said, "and she is here all alone. Tell me, did she have a recent split?"

Was surprised she had not told him herself, as she would often tell anyone who would listen. "She did," I said quietly, then explained that her husband had left her in August, less than a year after they'd gotten married.

"I see," he said. "You will not mind, then, if I endeavour to lift her spirits this evening? I promise not to do anything more."

Was filled with great love for Eduardo. Well, not same kind of love as for, say, Mark. "You do anything to hurt her and you _will_ answer to Mark," I said with a light-hearted tone.

"I swear," he said, drawing a small X over his chest with a thumb. "Cross my heart. No… how do you say it? Fuckwitted."

Laughed, then corrected him with, "Fuckwittage."

"Ah yes, of course," he said. "No fuckwittage. I just want to make her smile. It's a nice smile."

The rest of the evening, have not seen Jude so happy, being paid so much attention by a gorgeous Latin American man. How that would boost her self-esteem! And Shaz was v. happy too, with her new beau, the American client of Mark's colleague Gavin. When they danced, they danced with no one else, made gooey eyes… made me wonder how serious things had gotten in under a month. V. happy for her, of course. After all the shit she's been through, she deserves someone looking at her with gooey eyes even for just a little while. Tom… well, got my dance with him. There were tears and (re)assurances that would not be abandoning our friendship. In moment of weakness, he had brought Jerome, who have to say, was v. well-behaved. Tom assures that he is not going to get involved with all that again. (Was right, too, re: Eduardo; saw Tom's v. appreciative look at him more than once.)

As for the Los Angeles crew, they all seemed to have a v. g. time. Made sure to have a dance with Ron; Mark made Marisa's day by asking her for a dance, which made her feel like a young lady, not a child.

Before we knew it, it was nearing eight, and we needed to make our departure for our honeymoon, which was a four hour drive north. We said our goodbyes (tearful, but in happy way) and got into the Bentley.

First thing Mark said to me as we drove away: "So you made sure our bags are in the boot, yes?" Gasped, looked at him with alarm. But then he started to laugh. "Kidding. Henry assured me everything's in there."

Gave him a light punch on the arm, then leaned into him fully for a long kiss. Had been such a tiring day that we never even cracked into the champagne that had awaited us in the car. We both fell fast asleep.

Awoke with the car came to a stop at last. Henry had drawn up to where we were to check in. The proprietors had expected our arrival so late in the day, which was very kind and accommodating of them. With warm smiles and congratulations, the couple running the cottages brought us to ours. Mark and Henry brought in all of the bags, the unopened champagne (which was a pair to the bottle that awaited us inside), and with a final flourish, Mark swept self up into his arms and carried self over the threshold and inside.

"Mark," I said as he set me down, took my face in his hands.

He looked a bit rough, but so v. happy. He furrowed his brows. "What, darling?"

"What about Henry?" I asked.

"He'll not be joining us, don't worry," he said, then nuzzled into the hair by my ear.

"No, I mean, does he have to drive all the way back to London tonight? Poor fellow."

He chuckled. "No. Booked him a room at a hotel just down the road. He'll get to rest."

"Oh, good," I said. "Now I don't have to worry." Then I slipped my arms around his neck and kissed him. And then… our first night together as married couple. Not sure it is possible to put into words how happy, safe, warm, loved, cherished self felt in our marital bed. Pretty convinced Mark felt the same, and hope we ever shall be. (There was a non-fatal, champagne-cork-related mishap on wedding night, but Mark rallied and overcame the resulting injury splendidly.)

Ooh, Mark's awake. Going to dress and take a walk through the woods. Is so peaceful and beautiful here. Fresh air and silence. As lovely as it is here, though, as wonderful as our time here has been, can now see that more than a week would start to send self round the bend. Will be heading back to London on Friday for another week there. Mark is eager to bring me home and show the house off, help to finish unpacking my things… plus we intend on spending the time in London like we're tourists, going to galleries, etc. V. much looking forward.

**10.37 am.** Have realised as wrote above that am technically homeless: have moved out of flat, but not yet into house. Hm.

**1.45 pm.** As we took our walk, asked Mark how we were getting back to London on Saturday. "British Rail," he said with total deadpan, then squeezed my hand. Bastard. Love him.

**1.47 pm.** …not that British Rail would be end of world. Have taken it plenty of times. Just not, er, ideal for honeymoon travel. Do not want to sound like snobby posh lawyer wife.

**1.48 pm.** Also, not sure Mark Darcy has ever taken British Rail in life, so was obvious joke on his part.

**Sun, 4 Oct**

_9st 1 (inevitable), cigarettes 6 (all in back garden, for sanity's sake), alcohol units 3 (reasonable), days with Holland Park mailing address 1._

**9.21 am. London.** Can no longer sleep. Cannot help feeling like am staying over and need to get back to flat. Do not wish to make it seem that am not happy with house do-over—because it's beautiful and perfect, what the designer has done to cosy up the place—but just am not used to it.

Should start over, as feels as if entry is off on the wrong foot. We arrived home to London yesterday, deposited before the Holland Park house by Henry in the usual car, not British Rail after all (ha, ha). "Shall I carry you over this threshold, too?" he asked, in apparent seriousness. Smiled and nodded; it made sense that he should, to our newly shared home.

Hardly seemed the same house. Wasn't overly cluttered (after all, that takes time and accumulation of bits and bobs) but gone were the white walls, white furniture, and décor devoid of colour and design. The sitting room was done over with wallpaper and framed art; the weird, uncomfortable chairs and sofa were replaced with new, comfy ones with gorgeous, lush fabrics. (Later saw that the guest bedrooms had been similarly re-attired—no more giant white chairs!) The kitchen was no longer dominated by brushed steel and impenetrable pantries—now there was warm pale wood, wine and dish racks, totally accessible, airy, and open. And the master bedroom, oh—gone was the stark cold white, replaced with creams and blues like Delftware, but also dark red accents for a hint of warmth and depth.

Had said nothing during the tour Mark took me on, and admit felt a bit breathless. "What do you think?" he prompted at long last.

"Oh, Mark," I managed. "I love it. It's absolutely gorgeous. I don't know what to say. That you did all of this for—"

"Shhh," he interrupted. "I did this for _us_. It should feel like a house people live in, not a museum showpiece. Plus, as a bonus, I can find my frying pans and coffee maker without issue now."

Laughed, then took him in my arms. "I feel so incredibly spoilt," I murmured, before I got up on my toes to kiss him.

"Good," he said. "Just as it should be."

Still, it's a new place and am not used to it being home yet, though Mark's efforts have not been in vain. Today we'll put my clothes into the bedroom. Hope it is not weird for him, after being in this house for a while on his own, to suddenly have another person around here all the time. Know that he has been preparing for this, mentally and logically, but the reality of it is likely going to be harder than he thinks.

Suppose should head down to the kitchen and give making coffee a go. Mark claims he can find the coffee maker, but whether anyone else can is unknown.

**10.01 am.** Had just found the cafetière when mobile started going off. Was Jude, ringing to see how we were settling in. Was the first we had really talked since wedding reception.

"That really was such a lovely do," Jude said. "I had no idea that the Darcy family house was more of an _estate_! You could tell everyone was having a great time." Wasn't sure where she was going with this, so waited for the inevitable 'but'. It came in short order. "But I _have_ to ask you something."

"What?"

"That Eduardo from Los Angeles," she said. "So charming. I know I'm here, he's in LA, nothing's going to come of it… but you must tell me if you put him up to it."

"I swear on Mark Darcy's perfect bottom that I did not."

Jude was silent for a short time, then, "You promise."

"I do." Decided to come clean with Jude. Mostly. "He came to me, actually," I said. "He hated seeing you so blue, and was it okay if he tried to make you smile."

"Really?" she asked. Her voice had brightened considerably.

"Yep," I said. "He liked you. He liked seeing you smile. That was his goal for the day."

"He succeeded," said Jude. Could tell she was much cheered. "So what are you doing today?"

Told her that we hadn't really made firm plans. "Making coffee is at the top of my list right now," I said. Felt a hand on my shoulder, which gave self a start. Was Mark coming up from behind.

"I'll do that for you," he said quietly, kissing my temple.

"That's my cue," said Jude in my ear. "Have a lovely day, Bridge."

So now Mark's making breakfast in the kitchen. _Our_ kitchen. Still seems v. weird to say that.

**5.31 pm.** A busy day unpacking boxes and bags of clothes upstairs into the bureaus and wardrobe. Mark hardly had to prune down his own clothing, as his things barely filled either. Was a little more difficult integrating my toiletries into the en suite as had rather a lot, but we made it all fit. Going to now get cleaned up to go out for something to eat. Mark's going to pick somewhere nearby that we haven't been to before.

**5.52 pm.** Pizza, wine, massive dessert menu. Mark is most perfect husband. PERFECT.

**9.36 pm.** Back home now. _Home_. (Getting easier and easier to call it this.)

Had lovely dinner. Told me that we will have unfortunate non-honeymoon-related meeting tomorrow afternoon, relating to sale of flat, which listed with estate agent week before wedding. V. difficult subject, conflicting emotions, as was v. happy to be starting a new phase of life, but v. sad to let go of flat that represents the life am leaving. Apparently is already prospective buyer. Someone called Bryony. Will see tomorrow if she is worthy successor to my lovely flat.

**9.45 pm.** Mark now running a bath for us in massive spa bathtub. Know that this is brand new marriage, that we are new at this and on best behaviour, but also know the reality of living with Mark while we work and live our lives together as individuals and as a couple. Am excited for what's to come. He has seen me at my worst and loves me anyway.

**11.20 pm.** Hm. Had just settled in to bath, sitting facing one another, when Mark dropped something of a bombshell on self.

"Have something I want to discuss with you," he began. Instantly felt apprehensive, even as his fingers brushed up and down my shin. "This wouldn't be until the new year, but… there are at least two cases I'm keen to take on. They are both long-term…" He paused. "And they are both abroad."

"Oh," I said, staring at the shifting water, the distorted shapes of our bodies beneath the soap suds. Thought of months spent on own in cavernous (though much friendlier) home. Was this how our married life would actually be?

"Bridget."

Looked up to catch his eye.

"You'd be coming with me," he said gently, with big, soulful eyes. "I mean, if you could, and you wanted to."

In relief, smiled, then laughed. Of course I wanted to. Would still go wherever he was, and time in LA proved could work from just about anywhere. "Oh," I said again. "Yes." Sniffed with the budding emotion, then asked, "Where are they? The cases, I mean?"

"One's in South Africa," he said. "The other's in Greece."

Both sound lovely. Might just manage to help him make the right decision.

**11.56 pm.** Another bombshell just as we were settling in for the night. "Actually," he said nonchalantly as he put away his toothbrush, "I could keep taking these cases abroad as long as you want to come with me."

Hm. Hmmmmm. V. much like the sound of that indeed. But also thought about children, how we'd talked about how we'd both wanted them (suspected he had, but it was good to be sure). Would not be practical to bring babies abroad for these cases.

"What are you thinking?" Mark asked, his tone grave.

"Planning," I said. "Our family, I mean. Of course I'd want to come with you, but…"

"Ah," he said. "Yes, I've been thinking about that, too." He offered me a smile. "I thought it might be nice to have a couple, a few years to ourselves, then start trying."

"But Mark," I said, "I'm thirty-s—"

"And I'm forty-two," he said, interrupting me. "So?"

Offered him a great big smile. He seemed so certain that I suddenly was, too. "All right," I said. "That's okay, then, since they'll think of _you_ as the ancient one."

At that he flicked water at me from the running tap, so naturally had to splash back, and… mmm. We may not be starting a family yet, but practise _does_ make perfect.

**The end.**

**Story notes**

Deductions made from information presented in _Mad About the Boy_:

Mark's birth year is given as 1956, which means he was 41 in January 1998. It's never noted when Mark's birthday is, so I think of it as being around Colin Firth's (10 Sept), just because it's easy to keep track of. (And I don't commemorate it in this story, either. Poor Mark.)

We know Bridget is 51 in April, 2013. That means she was born in 1962, and therefore was 35 in January, 1998 (she turns 36 on 21 March, 1998; we know her birthday from _BJD_).

We know that Bridget's brother Jamie is older by four years and thus 39 (since it is mentioned in _BJD_ that Jamie is 37 (entry from Thursday, 21 December) and she would have been 33 that year).

Since Mark turns 39 the year of the Ruby Wedding (1995), and a Ruby Wedding celebrates a 40th wedding anniversary, it's easy to assume that Peter must be younger than Mark. I made him three years younger than Mark (but he still older than Bridget), 38, which seemed reasonable.

Things get weird because 1996 is, um, missing. This is how Bridget can turn 33 in _BJD_ and turn 35 during of _EOR_—not that her age is given in either—even though there is no actual break between the two books.

Tom says Richard leaves Jude ten months after wedding. Since they were married in early December, that places him leaving her in October, but since I wanted Jude and Richard to split before Bridget's wedding as a Portent of Doom, we'll just pretend Tom's memory is foggy. Perhaps October was when divorce talk was really initiated.

Shaz is not in the book (_MATB_) because she ran off to get married to a dot-com whiz from Silicon Valley. No reason Bridget and Mark couldn't have set them up.

Tom is a therapist. It's never clear what he does in _BJD_ or _EOR_, but since he's a former pop-star in the movie, I presume that he gets certified at some point later. I'm assuming this happens sometime after returning from San Francisco.

EOR leaves us at the end of 1997, but Billy is not born until 2006 and Mabel is born just 3 months before Mark's… well, you know; why did they wait so long to have children? It was curious to me that they would have either put off getting married, or would have waited so long to have children intentionally. Bridget never mentions having had fertility problems in _MATB_. The only possibility left that seemed reasonable was that they had decided consciously to put it off, to have time together alone or because of Mark's work, or maybe some combination of both.

Also, the potential flat-buyer Bryony is a hat-tip to Bryony Gordon, whose book _The Wrong Knickers_ is very, _very_ funny and very much a modern spiritual companion to Bridget (regardless of whether the character Bryony equals the author Bryony, but then again, Helen Fielding has all but admitted she's Bridget).


End file.
